Those are not your words, the Lady said.
He, having nothing to deny, stays silent
And puts down the pencil in his hand.
Acting like a child who is too quiet;
In his very innocence he created guilt.

You praise me, she said, but it is not your praise.
When you love me it seems not of your will
But instead, of mine, and all of your ways
Of making me beautiful seem of my design.
I feel like I've written you a script;
Like an imperfect actor, forgetting lines,
You say almost what I want but still have tripped.
The Faiteur picks up pen and closes eyes
The tortured Lady opens hers and cries
 
 
 
 
 

Faiteur is greek for maker, e.e. cummings word for "poet"