Never trust a blue-eyed boy in matters
Of love, or trifles of that kind.
Not least if you have hopes to live.
For blue eyes sparkle with the strength of blood,
And with such ease can they take your tender heart for food.
The theft I’ll grant; the lie I can’t forgive.
With what wound can a man inflict himself and call it sense?
What fiery brand would wreak a welt and then a smile?
What madness this?
To say but a word and it’s obvious
A rose, a kiss
With all the thorns
All love is just a masochist.
Heart, sewer of the soul,
heaps high with the muck of emotion,
oozing dream-curdled and love-soiled
and thickened with bile hacked from raw throats.
What fool dares dip his hand
into that pool of phlegm and tears
to grasp its hidden nectar?
Even so steadfast an ivory cage
cannot restrain the filth
that froths and overspills its bounds,
breathes its insidious stench between rose petals
into a withered ear.
No, scarce near does the very creator heft his mighty instruments,
for even he cannot beget a solvent to scour
the sediment of Memory,
the sludge of Time.
What scorn hath not met me, with sting intact,
Needs list me well, for he hath toothless rake
That twill no more a fatal shriek attract
Than fangless beast a knighted gauntlet shake.
Fair thousand steps have tracked mine withered vault
With spiders’ lines. Shrunk hand the battle-sword
Will fail to clasp. Slack jaw no more assaults
The ‘boldened brow as yet a whispered word.
‘Twould gain thee credit to disturb my bile
Or in my battered heart a blaze ignite
As ‘twould to win a simple’s mind with guile
Or from a blind man thieve his remnant sight.
A prizeless quest, to grant me one more strife:
For you, shall be no gain. For me, no life.
Now go wash the doom and gloom out of your brain. I swear, there'll be more with the happy soon. Or at least sarcastic humor.