Wilde may be this visitor’s fancy.

Words are foxes that mislead the chase.

Our journey must end in this Castle

Ever flourishing with pride of place. 

Ugly wallpaper
With a golden hue.
Inherited from the previous owner.

It's taken me many a day
To get Schumann,
His sad tales
Gently rocking.

All I ask is room to speak,
An acknowledgment,
A pause you grant
To listen. 

I've been most fortunate in mother-in-laws.
One a knitter
Of Simple throws
Shorn of glitter.

Characters
Dislodge compulsions
For this lone night. 

The junction—
Thought with matter
Effortless connection

To take each on a journey
To whatever lands they wish.

Another pen,
Another pad,
Tokens from a nighttime’s stay,

There's no alternative to effort,
Focus, relentless trying,
For to cease like Rossini
Is the silence of early dying.

One final Adriana
One more to demonstrate, 
One more to teach.

My most neurotic Parsifal,
Chosen without a clue.
He neuterized his tenor voice,
Forgot what males might do.

My first Aida,
You graced a house lamented and lost.
Forma divina,
You sang a slave who would not be crossed.

Each nighttime’s stopping
A valuation,
A ritual passage
Of validation. 

Finding that truer voice,
Making that better choice,
Keeping that range on pitch,
It's so hard, such a bitch.