it is the treasures of love that often fool
conceled, conceited, always too cruel.
on the path of meloncholia, the lonely traveler stumbles upon a house
made of ivory and honey.
it's candies reaching out to tongues
in a song so sweet--
it beckens inside
the heart of gold,
unbenounced to the creature's scold.
an orchestra of sun and star,
plucking aimlessely at strings of the heart,
the sugar coat into tart.
as noon dies to night,
a cloak of light collapses around
reducing strength to drifting dust
free and forsaken--
spotting grey the feathers of ice white doves
that circle, prowling, right above,
keeping secret the tribunals of love.