Swirl in colour,

Her legs wrapped apart from her

Tumbling hair trembles as

The torrent of curls

Brush a cheek.


Washed in sin and out of­­

Grace, arancia drips from her


Her painted smiles burn,

Faerie life runs in her veins.


‘Pretty, witty’ is sighed

As her third Charles dotes

And her frosted breast

Turns scarlet, blooming.

Mother of the stage,


I knew her.

The End

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