Worrisome are these growing days
when boundless joy from being alone
suddenly sours and chokes its prey-
with the greatest grief that is ever known.
But what does Eros know of heartbreak?
Of unrequite? -That voracious imp
Goring us through without consent,
rendering even adamantine wills limp.
His arrows burgeon Spring and all of its fervors,
a season, at length, that does cold hearts no favors.
All thaws, bringing with it fresh torrents from the hearts
winter ice helped to staunch, unhealed, still beating
testament to love's cruelest arts.
And do I sit here until the winter returns,
a torrent from my own chest to hide?
Or seek mercy from unending exsanguination,
an action for which I cannot ever abide?
 Abyss Sugara · Mon Apr 16, 2012 @ 08:16pm · 0 Comments |
