I will dispense with any indication of how I arrived at the following lines, though it would be interesting to know what others think of my observations. What could have been the scenario to engender such poetic ascertainment of human behaviour?

Where does it lead you, if anywhere?

I have made two attempts to finalise this poem,

Therefore, I have posted them both, the second in a slightly different style and direction.

When I become famous, I may write a third!

That is if the devil will allow me such freedom from my designated chores.

First attempt.

T‘was not that white glove- you dropped at my feet:

with its subtle fragrance, of fresh Dolce Gabbana.

Curation’s moirai - sought ineluctable meet

as time’s last hunter, of our yester’s Ostara.

Where vernal over-reaches versant on its own:

and peers not, those passing fermits -of-night.

It fears not Machiavellian’s ferine cologne

whose, dark lust, needs to betray ne’er a light.

For seldom, it’s pled, in past aislings o’ dead,

where passion’s presence, it did wither and die.

That love’s but –appetence set fair in our head,

when, time’s agrestal rose, is verisimilar- awry.

Where amative thorn rips- vitea fabric apart

to show id’s arcanum -its own pollent of heart.

And cries like hamartia’s- reverent banshees, of Hell

When, aphotic secret- sensorium’s portents do tell.

For it’s in jostled sin of machinations own joy

That gives muse, its entourage- and suite to employ.

Second attempt. In a Somewhat different direction.

It was not your white glove: of ‘invitant côté’

or esoterism of Dolce and Gabbana.

It needs not curation; give voice its vendee,

or self, a set of reply:

Those thoughts perceived by its drama,

or truths it seeks now deny.

It fears not ferity’s Machiavellian cologne

whose, lech plies serotine ne’er a light.

A purpose pled, of poet’s darker eosin

that lacquers its last icon dark,

in those flames wafted by feigned self-fright.

Or emotions of a divided tetrarch 

Where zetetic thought flourish and approval apply

 Affaire de Coeur; appetence set on afar.

Truth dare not deny agrestic lusts of a sigh

for Sibyl sees its self-lenition

where Sistine’s pale is set so ajar,

to mindedness of attraction...

As amative thorn rips- vitea fabric apart

and cries hamartia’s reverent orée:

To show arcana’s, own pollent of heart,

like vagrant virgins of night.

Aphotic secrets, of their portent’s ennui

and cries of their sometimes delight.

For it in jostled sin of darker envoy

that gives muse entourage and suite to deploy.

As we retrieve fortuity's symbolic white glove.

Which salient action, be then seen as ours;

Intrinsic fortuity’s black Baccara of love:

Man’s ruminate motif, of own dark hued hours.