All the bards before me
Wove words into phrases
Embroidered gold
With wit and romance.
Their brazen basses
And tenors tuned
To tingle and quiver
All the fibers
Of the hearts
Of their lovers.
“Mine is the fairest.”
So say they all.
“Her eyes are down.
Her lips are liquor
And I’m drunk,
And I’ll drink,
And I’ll drink.”
Yet how perfect is perfect
When all the fair are fairest?
I know these bards
Are just fools
Lost in love.
Yes. Fools. Fools.
All of them fools,
For mine is the fairest
Of them all.
He Who Wanders 