You’re sniffing at heart,
Love’s melodic pigment,
To slot all its parts
In your palpable ligaments,
You’re drinking, you’re sober
On feminine wine,
The older the better;
A crippled design,
The proof makes you hungry,
It makes you irate,
No time to be angry
When love’s at your gate!
But why even chase her
And spoil yourself lovely?
Perhaps when you face her,
You’ll find that she’s ugly,
Not golden, not pure,
Nor heaven's own marrow,
Not amorous fury,
Nor cupid’s deft arrow,
Perhaps she’s attraction,
A soft bed of thorns
To make light of the fact
That you’re naked when born
No comments:
Post a Comment