the machiavellin

[moxibeth]

she is split three, while they are split four
aching grass carries them-
the two, not the four

she is a sweet tonic to the other’s ills,
ever so unrequited
disquieted tears are her wine
doors unlock with a draped arm

oh, her bridge sways within
time and tide has worn her away

she imagined, and imagines still,
in whatever corrupted dreams she dreams
when skies were drear they made their truce,
but soon without her, all ambience drowned

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i want to learn as much as possible, so i appreciate any critique :)