Curtains of cloth
woven in a weary white
hang from end to end,
window to window
of the four walls of your world,
which wallow
in the purest of all paints.
(why, the purest of all pains!)
Arranged in a manner so geometrical,
that ’tis almost grotesque.
And almost so,
(O, fortunately “almost so”!)
For that faintest stain
of dirt and dust.
I am so sorry for it:
for that faintest stain!
No regrets, none indeed!
For ’tis an apology
uttered with amusement
an apology for my penchant for predicament.
This stanza will be a souvenir for its kind!
After this, I’ll have no more numerical rhymes combined.
If once, I saw perfection with the sight of Mind,
a toast to me, for I am now blind!
© lee zhi wei 2005
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Submission Name: Penchant For Predicament
