I lie naked in front of your mirror and see impressions of your intensity.
The warm spots show as purple smears of condensation.
I kiss the stars where your personality once lived.
The spectral Taliban is speaking, who are you, you are me peaking?
The landscape picture on the library wall, the waterfall in tacit yellow,
smooth ripples flow across the green screen shadow.
Askance glances from the rebellious paint orbs, the footmen
of the landed gentry live in the scene, as WARLORDS.
The young women bathing in the turbulent pool, confident
and coquettish, wash their breasts with streams of laughter.