Ah, love, you hurt me so,

With your sweet thoughtless words.

They hold so much meaning,

or so I hope,

That blossom honey springs from your mouth

As if from a fountain, a stone Cupid's bubbling lips.

 

But when I wish to taste them,

To kiss beads of sugar syrup

From pink lips painted with what may be rose's blood-

But could with so much ease be that

Which sprung from those other lambs

Led by soft handed preists with flower chains

Before the gleaming marble of your love's altar,

-you pull away, you replace the lacey veil

That they say keeps your heart the maid's,

And, I suspect, clothes the head that is with a maiden no longer.

 

Love, my breath itself I'll tear from my hidden breast,

If you'd only hear its whisper,

And my honor, duty to Faith, to Father, to Family,

I'd cry woe upon my kin, if that be your one wish true.

 

You've said as much before,

That if only I did such-and-such

And brought you so-and-so,

You'd be by my side, the angel fallen from my shoulder,

To hang upon my arm,

Yet I still hear your slick viper's voice,

Hissing wishes in my desiring ear.

I wish to listen to your song, my love, I do.

 

But when it's the Cuckoo's song to Warbler,

Promising sacchirine love as she sits in an ill gained nest

And throws out innocent eggs to crush upon the chilly ground,

Before replacing them with her own hopes,

Who'll demand the life of their mistakenly adoptive mother,

The notes that seep into my soul

Are written by the Grecian Crones

To do more the work of pain than that of love.

 

Tell me in truth, swear by all that you hold dear,

If indeed you're capable of such a feat,

Whether you really are deserving of that epithet,

My love, or else if I should strike the first word,

Which despite all odds carries so much promise in just two letters,

And call my affection unrequited.

 

I could live as thus, I did for so long.

Love does not spoil to bitterness so quickly,

When it burns with such fury as in my maiden heart.

 

But I must know, in either case, for those wounds

That are not stitched soon after they've been dealt,

Are those that fester and rot upon the flesh,

And I wish not to lose my heart forever

To the slash that you've cut through it-

Though the blade may've been as gentle

As an arrowhead from silver Dian's quiver

-let me sow up rended muscle with silken thread,

No matter if that thread match the seeping blood

And be stained with the red of treachery,

Or be as pure violet as the flowers

I left for you on midnight windowsill, Love,

to show loyalty and intention.

 

I live for your musings with as much fervor as I die for them;

Though they may smell as sweet as your lavender perfume

I fear that they may leave

A bitter ache inside my breast.