And the nebula of colours twisted
Spake to the star whom for her love listed,
And with logic sensibly insisted
That the pow’r of our love they could ne’er match.
It’d be impossible as to catch
A shooting star as love as we two do;
Theirs would die when existence desisted.
The red giant took this not as offense,
For love’s been reputed to make all dense,
And there are some it’s e’en made go insane.
She laughed as a child and questioned again,
For one should e’er question the depths of love,
Even should one live in the stars above.
Such coquettish makes it a pleasant brew.
Satire
Moors
Utopia’s nowhere was newly found
Where you trod, as it is hallowéd ground.
Yea, there do the lilies and violets spring
Into beauty as a poetic thing!
“My Goddess, ye art perfect!” Angels sing,
Who worship with voice as bird on the wing.
A whole civilization could be built
‘Round the holy waters your eyes have spilt,
Since ’round rivers are low ones constructed.
Gorgeous grace that realm will have seducted.
Rejoicing, they’d worship you as their queen.
You’re grand, they’re base, and there’s naught in between.
The multitudes would give their lives for you;
They’d wish there was something more they could do.
Curiae
It would take a Supreme Court ruling to
Interpret the odd love I feel for you.
But would I think it just when it is through?
After all, should it have trouble with the
Pursuit of defining obscenity,
Then I must question its authority
To tell I, a lover!, what love is. I
Say love’s more fleeting and grand; should it try
To capture love in mundane words, I’d sigh
To see it with the abstract waste its time
And send the good children to weigh a crime
Or some such small thing and love in my prime.
What wisdom’s made me expert in love’s might?
Only the first and all subsequent sights.
Demanotation
But what in love’s incapacitation
Know I for madness’s jubilation?
For you I suffer decapitation.
Thus, canst thou hold irrationality
Against me ‘sif ’twere some legality?
You said I’d a weird personality
‘Pon the primary occurrence we met,
As destined by the paths long ago set.
Know I little of propriety, fret
Not, for I intend to worship in mind,
Where all’s as can be wished and e’en you’re kind
And for undue charges I am not fined.
I love ye more’n could e’er be requited.
To love you a crime, I’d be indicted.
Volve
Change anymore than you’ve already done,
And I’ll know catastrophe has begun.
It would be as if a museum caught fire
Which held Egypt’s artifacts of each sire.
The building and values within gone
Would be trifling, cease you to be your own.
You’ve been perfect since you I have but seen
That first occasion when I truly saw
Your fig’rative innards and not the sheen
Of chilled beauty, which does equally awe.
Change you, how could it be for the better?
You are perfect; water can’t get wetter.
I would have you in a preserved state
With your dark tresses falling from your pate.
Addiction on the Mind
Oh, I could easily get over you,
I think, if I but ever wanted to.
This differs from, though I would not take bets,
Those addicted to drugs and cigarettes.
But why would I force myself to forsake
Love, when it will be slayne, as if with a stake.
Alack, Time is the great vanquisher. Friends
Oft’ arise matured to find friendship ends
With silent separation and moving
Of houses or desires. It’s behooving
To enjoy Love’s passing transience,
Though this is not realized by the less dense.
My, I’m fond of how your eyes bug with style,
But I’m more addicted to your rare smile.
Entitlements
As discussed, you’re in no need of a tan,
Albeit you have no fear of burning.
Some might delight in calling you a witch,
But it shows massive flaws in their learning,
Which was probably stopped or ne’er received.
But don’t worry of me, I’m a big fan.
Thus, ergo, I am blind to any glitch
Which you can’t have. Does this make you relieved?
I feel you’re proper, and this I don’t feign:
Perfection like you’s entitled to deign.
Why can’t they look into your eyes unblue
And drown in the cold depths and catch the flu?
What right do they have to feel your equal,
For you are unique and have no sequel?!
Olive
I fancy you’re something of an olive,
And, though those branches mayst be by a dove
Bourne, there is none superior to thee
And none higher, though thou be from a tree.
Much of that color is your complexion
Naturally, with tanning’s neglection.
Voluptuous, you’re nicely pump and round,
Though not as most portly fellows I’ve found.
You’ve no need of envy; should you be green,
It’s only because there’s much you’ve not seen.
It’s well you’re not black; it’s such a sweet taste.
Green bitterness prevents meaningless haste.
You must be unpitted [you have a heart.]
An onion you’d be, knew I where to start.
To Differ
For me to feel not as the others do
Would require me to fall in love with you,
For I doubt that this emotion any
Mortal for you possesses. Not many
Humanoids [they’re devoid of a heart] attain
This fickle passion, but, instead, refrain
And partake of the constancy of Lust,
Which needs not a name, commitment, or trust.
Though some men would like in lesser degrees,
It’s not countable as love when from these,
Since love’s unconditional and complete
Surrender. None love you, for some like heat;
Your frigid love would be warm like the burn
Of ice too long grasped only, I discern.
Tripping Up
Up am I tripping and in love falling
With thy angelic frustration. Of course,
Thou dost know that, though thine hair is sprawling
Around thine shoulders, I do it by force—
Which easily categorizes thee.
Gladly upon myself do I impose
The vain desire to suffer your love’s throes;
I’m no idiot to wish to be free.
After all, it is the proper manner
To fall for love, as autumn is the best,
And winter pains loving with death’s behest.
One canst not purchase beads from a tanner.
I’m wont for casual, chilled affection
After summer’s heated misdirections.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 