they draw their lines with looks, the pretty ones
give only what they want,
sweet amethyst caves where wanderers lose
plumose words from pinkened doors
fading boundaries against the blackness
where no one, nothing enters unbidden

they move beyond this realm, the pretty ones
with poems beneath their eyes
hunger without but never within
breath expiring in flightless aviaries
orienting themselves toward the brightest stars
for none divert their paths

they mystify the sophists, the pretty ones
exist in essence to humble the world
amplify stain where much is old
the eloquence of form in every hazy motion
the consequence of love's more fatal notions
and never can cause be known