thoughts, neatly pressed...

wellingtons and kilt of tweed
to avert,  
the sedimentation of flowering weeds.  
the rock and the lea  
as the pheasant on the path flees.  
upon my head rest,  
at its best...  
a Balmoral's bonnet,  
faithfully,  
rehearsing as a curse,  
the rhyming couplet  
from an Elizabethan sonnet...  
indeed, at its worst.  
traveling the winding twist  
in yonder sight  
my eyes grasp,  
for inside lurking,  
the teak and mahogany walls  
trophies do adorn  
lion's jaws  
and the pairing of prong horn.    
the smooth statues and marbled bust  
the cast of the chisel  
a mirage, like water upon it, drizzles.  
hint of a pipe's smoke and the lint of dust  
whimsical the scent  
dream-like how it consumes, yes it does.  
sweet lady,  
within my thoughts you are nestled.  
for upon a pestle  
i would place  
...you in my pocket  
as if you,  
a silver locket.  
jeweled and tooled  
simple as a governing rule,  
in reality, yes dear  
... so antiquated i do fear.  
the world atlas in its place  
along with its partner, the orb.  
countless books, the shelves  
knowledge just waiting  
...to be abhorred,  
or reversely absorbed.