Feign, my burdened breath holds soft the whisper of her name.
Come hither, and look upon this most heavenly of all angels,
Cast in purest marble on the pulpit of Cathedrale de Chartres.
Feign, she speaks to me from the very stone in which she sleeps.

Would that I, in reverent tasks, live in ecstasy upon her deliverance,
She, who is my most potent and purest of unrequited lovers known.
Be it not worn upon my brow the countenance of her pleasures,
Not merely for my soul, but for the very passion which she confers.

Here I sit, each day, in awe, gazing at her marbled form seraphic.
I reach for her, willing my hand to pass through this solid stone.
In whispered words, I make love to her, and she to me in mind.
The facile marble beneath my hand, caressing her chiseled form.
Perfect breasts beneath stone dress bear the sheen of my longing.
The torture of such hindrance only seeks to stoke my desire.

This night, I come to be with her, at the closing of the doors.
I steal away to some lone pew and await my hour of release.
As night sets on stained glass, and the priests put out the lights,
I go to her, my embrace, and ply myself to her marble thighs.
The passion builds within me, until I am one with the stone.

Choosing then my only recourse, I seal our fate with this blade.
The cold steel pierces my heart and I am in Death's hands.
Here, we shall unite by God, even as my blood bathes the pulpit.
With my last breath, I speak her name, Catherine de Bourgogne.
Now, in dying flesh, let her and my winsome souls entwine eternal.

...

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