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The organ not being an instrument of romance --
The golden woman, her eyes like old coins, fingers
Keys and sheet music, resurrects an antic dance,
As the last kiss of her lover, like dusk, lingers.
He stares through the pipes at his new passion; dozing,
The sister, with her fingers between the pages
Of Arthurian tales of knights seeking, losing,
At times finding honor and love for the ages.
He's no Lancelot, just an armored fighting man
Who woos, beds, and betrays every woman he can.
In scarlet, his new prey is pleased to bare her thigh
And knees, even her shoulder, to conjure a sigh.
In a sheath between those gilded knees, a short knife
Will take her own, her sibling's, or her lover's life?
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