Pristine verses

She wrote pristine verses
on the ceiling of my soul
Till the British Museum said, “slow down”.
She sang Angelique songs
till the devil took tongs and pulled the fire out

It’s hard to bear
Someone so stunning
Makes you tired
You realise your whole life’s misfired

Then the seamstress touched me
and my stitches fell away
And the choir was singing
though I could not hear a word, they said
“You’re falling up to heaven
But you’re the wrong way down”

Pandemonium in the palace
Desperation on the throne
To tell the first that first is last
You see, she’s finally gone home

She wrote sixteen verses
that my memory slipped upon
Though my clutching fingers
held some pieces and the song