The Dutchess stands, all dressed in black,
like a raven perched upon a writing desk.
Her high boot comes to a stop with a tap.
She stares out over the empty cobblestone street
as if to scan an open field for anything that moves,
anything she can find well hidden beneath.
Her eyes stop, resting on the sight of him;
a man standing upright, standing tall, her duke maybe,
though that is not for us to know.
For she lives in a world that is not our own;
one of thoughts and dreams, where oils drip from the walls
and run down the streets.
One of not bodies but of minds, where reality is but a stroke
and there is always more than what meets the eye.