An ode to a concubine:
The sound of her silk skirt has stopped.
On the marble pavement dust grows.
Her empty room is cold and still.
Fallen leaves are piled against the doors.
How can I bring my aching heart to rest?
Nothing like finding poetic inspiration in a mistress. I wonder what Emperor Wu Ti of the Han Dynasty would have written for his wife.
She would wu-tee me with a delicate pinch that would send my soul directly to the gods above. Confucious says, she's a keeper.
"I wonder what Emperor Wu Ti of the Han Dynasty would have written for his wife?"
ReplyDeleteThe sound of her bitching and nagging has stopped.
on the un-taken out trash the dust grows.
Her iPod is off, the battery dead.
Fallen underwear and socks are piled upon the floors.
How can I bring my lazy ass to collect and toss the empty pizza boxes?