Braid of golden-spun
treachery; the water nymph
lies faithfully near

the stream of woven
froth, chanting anguished
arias of six-pence operas.

"Who could ever forget the
memory of unborn baby lambs
and soft-shelled mollusks?"

Pan, the maple-leaved imp of
the forest, attempts to corrupt
her, dancing chaotically

through lazy-eyed rushes,
shouting gleefully of
false prophecies and dreams.

"Woe is the Scribe who
pilfers that pearl-
inlayed comb,

and professes that he
himself breathed life into
Lazarus' funeral shroud."

Escaping on the ivory back
of liquid kisses, the
nymph murmurs about

tales of cryptic prose,
eloquent edifices,
and cerulean-hued verisimilitude.