A Knightess' Death

She was a nonpareil

of such divine stuff made

as to make jealous the green eye of ambrosia,

her acting so Puritan and Precise

as to make the clock aware

and the Nightengale to regale and sing while she ate her heart.

She was Cinderella,

her hoof a keen blade that cuts to the Hour

love's keen second lost

in the silent striker's pause.

How I adored her!

How she lies in her dying art

overflowering with her talent

for speaking and speaking and speaking

as to make mute all admirers.

She was a Goddess

more fit for Elysium

than mere feet

through the turnistile of her knowing

blissfully turning

fools.