Left in a berth not of her making, that found Cupid sad. Fate cast her in a tumult and unquiet role, where she would question her very soul.
Closer to her privateness she pulls the woolen scarf of those who came before. It has become her bower in times of perennial tears.
Long before Triton first blew his horn in the time of the old gods, women have been allotted this unique task. Armed solely with a silent lyre and told to bedight tiny angels left unnamed.
Her maddened brain is obscured by steel clouds, and carried by old wives. Yet she endures alone, and with a bewinged quietude, delivers once drunk children along destiny's cartroad to their glossy and red-litten success.
Left tangled in weeping vines, battling half witted men of primitive rank. Her voluptuous rage has left them rapt in tender hoverings. Forever seeking Virgil's counsel as offensive and simple minded paupers. While she with nimble toes, mellifluous sorrows, and ambrosia breath can call forth the divine armies.
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