B: III: Old Lady of the Camellias
Often met first with eyes
Dark mysterious crevice
Entices nostrils in.
Fingers, tongues, they follow.
Tales unfold
That were untold.
Disgust, it soon takes hold.
One, too staunch for hate,
Tale-tired for toil,
Tells with flower-matching ribbon
What she's made of love and Fate.
poem by Douglas Scotney
Added by Poetry Lover
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