A base of lace? What a cliché
Elfin body of pristine, virgin muslin weaves together
The work of needles and red
fingers.
Pearly gossamer transforms sheath upon diaphanous sheath of milky cotton
Into a seraphically spotless robe primed for blessing.
Lilting lace fresh off an Italian boat lies effervescent on her beaming skin
Dulcet reveries stitched among the bird-nest tulle and foaming organza
Scissors, scissors where are my scissors
Love's opaline elixir seeps out my sewing machine
And onto the satin slender body of the mannequin bride.
I did that.
Brooding brocade blubbers over a bloodless body
An ink-pot weeps over murmurous velvet
These sorrowful pins pay their respects bluntly
Sooty thread recognises its fate now lays to rest among my meagre satins and corpulent silks
With condolences,
I did that.
