Young eyes spy the past in a modern square,
A quest to find and behold beauty,
Vestal Virgins painted white and fair,
An artful hunt becomes my life’s duty.
With the luminosity of the known,
It reminds me of travels north bound,
First flutters with life unsure and alone,
And how many perceptions can be found.
And so behind a curtain of intrigue,
Far and near – vestiges of the devil,
Whilst the group of women talk so discreet,
Their beauty my youth did seek to revel.
Alas, the certain darkness does linger,
Hidden or imposing forbidden fruits,
Out of reach of each delicate finger,
By far their most sinful of attributes.
Perhaps there is their peeping, old father,
He shaded red rather then the devil,
With pockets of lustfulness to smother,
All purity scorned to the lowest level.
And yet still I seek and I do wonder,
I seek the atlas across the swift breeze,
Vague memories pass by loud as thunder,
And I am left with a child to appease.
