It cost me nothing but a limp
Upon the listless eyes of Florence,
No break of darkness at the break of dawn
Above the shying domes of grotesque,
Entombed in chequered stone.
No rasping breathing of the ages
Upon my paled cheek in red,
No galling strain of godly pallor
Of humid galleries on edge.
Arcades have dimmed their
Stately crumbling features,
A decoy for embittered sense
That love has dropped,
Blindsided, on the blinded preachers
With folded arms
Of indignant offense.