This portrait dulled by the sweep of time
Speaks to sand in delicate rhyme
Its grains of gold cold as a ghost
propose divorce to those loved most
Memory is the game he plays
As tomorrow mourns yesterday
The fears are all afraid of the fright
That clothes the dawn in the night
We pause for a moment in respite
To soothe the shadow of a sleepless light.
The thin king in the past tense
Thought about his innocence
Prolonging pretty dalliance
Whilst witches bore beauty
Free of pain and pleasantry
He spoke his thoughts to mimicry,
Kissed the hand of jealousy -
Then whispered in her ear
Spend a thousand pennies
Borrow just as many
But never waste any
Of the portrait's precious time
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