The Robber of Roses

Regret knitted into loose conversation wraps me,
Dragged by a fisherman’s net, casually tossed over the lee.
Splayed, filleted, pocketed and oversteeped:
‘The Robber of Roses Steals Only from Sleep.”

Gypsies wait, dry and cracked into factions,
Weak yet precious, they laugh at my grateful retractions.
Irascibly unsheathing a gun or a fifth of sloe gin,
Forced to perform a show under the curtains at ten.

Lying, out goes our fire, I find another cord of lumber,
My chattering teeth annoying you, cold, continuously slumber.
Queens speak to douses, she’s m’lady but dubiously.
Gifts of morality her blue lips sing, then tale wags of prophecy.

Was I a wife? What you owed me? The morbid dissection.
I sit in the lens of rhetorical questions.
Unfolding table tricks inspired by a visitor’s versions.
Thought keyless standing on ice, all habits and perversions.

Bellicose drapes, light covered in lessons learnt at sea.
Talk to learned creatures so hot, simply taking tea.
Our brows creased then stones cut by axe or by pyre.
(God…What did she ask?) Finally, off you go beating me by a wire.

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