Clothes: to compose
The furtive, lone
Pillar of bone
To some repose.
To let hands shirk
Utterance behind
A pocket's blind
Deceptive smirk.
To mask, belie
The undue haste
Of breast for breast
Or thigh for thigh.
To screen, conserve
The pose, when death
Half strips the sheath
And leaves the nerve.
To edit, glose
Lyric desire
And slake its fire
In polished prose.
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Comments
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If I could applaud this piece, I would. The rhyme in this is exquisite. It flows just nicely and read aloud it has a nice tone to it.
I had to look up the word 'glose' and found it's a variation of 'gloze' or actually just spelt 'gloze' and the author took his poetic license and made the 'z' into a 's' to go with a better sound in the rhyme of 'prose'.
It's quite a wonderful piece I feel, about conjoining and meshing within oneself and others as well I feel.
But, at the same apparent time, I feel, though it's a comfort, there's also a haunting feel, a haphazard feel to it.
An excellent piece written by Tessimond.
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