Obsession

That’s my last duchess hanging on the wall,
as if she were alive; perhaps
she is to Browning, but not to I.
Her skin touched by the sun’s radiance;
olive smooth brings thoughts of Hera.
Her words absent of the night’s charm;
forked tongue brings thoughts of Apate.
Perhaps she was a goddess, once
I may have been her fool.
My last duchess now resides, hanging
on the wall. If only this were reality
after all.

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