  Loud chatter in a thousand minor lines Was your religion, and your art was pain Disguised by phrases of verbose disdain. You married an old man who gave you wines Lukewarm and pink, until your tipsy youth, Grown weary of evading sensual lies, Ran to idiot-Pierrot whose cries Created that delusion known as truth. The ache of your sincerity betrayed His awkward falseness, and he turned away, Grinning until your bullet found his head. Then people claimed that you had merely paid Insanely for a tritely sordid play. Your lyric could not answer—it was dead. |
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