“I built a stoa leading to the heart
Of my dream palace, where I hung the heads
Of lovers fooled by words”. Verse satisfied
The rhythm of the loss he felt. Meanwhile
The hole where once care lived, burnt red and raw,
As if with Lightborn’s rod, cooled leather-hard.
Edward, the second he knew this, began
Restyle his life, refine his taste for flesh:
He’d tolerate no more of love-talk, that
Bored him. Now darkly on his web he sat.
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