In conversations spoken
So very long ago,
Were echoes of my fated
past,
Broken heart and contrite
soul.
At once I voiced such
tepid thoughts
And thence they came to be
But, what once intended to
detail
Became a part of me
Oh, Galatea, maiden!
Cold grey stone from cell
Thy conversion hath reduced
me
To unstable, plighted shale
Err I knew that I were
right
In things I then pretense,
Never would I have
ventured speech
Of such harrowing sentence.
M. Thomas Eves, 2004
