Cryptiche

Can she hear the willful wail of a workaday heart? In league with a literal eye it framed her in fresco, myopicturesque.

Her question arrested:

``To what do you aspire?''

Was there an answer?

Not the real one: ``You.''

Definitions, deft or deep:

virtues, both, and verities -

and, in the heart-realm, rarities.

Heart:

``Mortal feelings...'' There it is, stark.

So then what course to take,

what path from pathos:

Mortal fleeings - to bolt from beauty?

To shrivel in the shell so gently jarred

by fingers of a woman?

Her bright benediction beckons -

alas, to all.

To what does she aspire?

Lyric lieutenants and commanding

composers?

Or the struggles of a common man?