Diamonds, in clear and glassy splendor,
Never rest, but burn eternal in their song.
All that is gold remains molten,
Dripping around ivory neck or encircling
All that seems is other,
From depth to height;
All is as the glance
Of the woman you will never know
No matter how entranced you are
By curve of lip, hip, or gently
Flowing hair all red-brown-gold and raven
Going grey and gone
To the great dismay of that prison house heaven
Called your soul.
Richard Van Ingram
9 December 2011
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