Peroxide razes her natural tones.
Her crown coloured night,
flitting pink and green.
The alfresco heat
searing her skin scarlet.

She meanders through
roman arcades,
a gauche guitar her companion.

Her fashion
washed in luminescent vogue
to ideals Milano.

Her latin tongue
is dulled by my own.
Smoothing her stiletto wit.
Però in italiano
her flow’s a drole allegro.

She wields a sharpened
jealous caprice.
A watchful centurion.
Attacking wandering loyalty,
reclaiming what’s already her own.

But fate’s tarot places her
in love’s finale. Solo,
retreating from love’s bella vista,
to a sepia solitude.


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