She sat in the garden and wept.
The puppet-master sat upon the liar-seat
with a melody playing over the bugel,
a wake-up call to the clay vessel maiden,
to animate, define, conform, absolve.
The puppet-master played ivory over ebony keys,
ebony over ivory tones,
a divided mind with himself to receive
any harvests from the blonde-haired maiden.
Yet he sat upon the chair, with his eyes bleeding
tongueless fury and mouthless ire,
unable to reconcile with
the maiden's words.
He was the king,
and she the princess.
But he was the greybeard, bald-headed,
and she the fresh lilly in the courtyard.
He knew what she was to be,
and she knew too.
The ramparts burned with thermal radiance,
at the rejection of her telos.
She was an animation of leather teeth,
defined by a woolen coat,
conformed to the pasture,
absolved by her able-bodied leisure.
His kingdom was walls,
and her kingdom, fields.