My king, fragrant snares have been laid
Upon the path,
They rear to kiss my lips
And leave me giddy
Breathless
With no defense… I fear their power.

The violence of the legion,
That bows to suckle the breast
Of our munificent preeminence
Willingly
Willfully,
Has grown unbearable spikes;
Confusion speaks
In wicked hues and cures… promises
Of a much needed reprieve
In the shadow of my death.

I yearn for your guidance, my king.
I plead for your benign wisdom!
Within the break of morn, I lie
Crushed by one more day of sunrise-
I cannot control the legion much longer, my love!
They seek without relent
My kindness
And my torture.
They seek to make love to my demise…

Should I learn to bestow a hateful facade
Upon the mass of the beloved,
I fear I would perish
By the one who tortures most-
‘T is I!

I read the answer upon your solemn stature-
Silent,
Virile… but I am weak, my love, I am weak!
I have not suffered such fatalities of the heart
To be so cruel to those who have so caressed it.

Yet I am not blind, I taste the bitterness of their flaws,
Their evils;
Awareness of their hunger and anxiety
Are but shards of glass in my soul…
Still
I would lament to be so cruel.
‘T is my weakness, my king,
My downfall…
As well as yours- my beloved.

It will forever keep us gazing upon the moon
From opposite shores.
I long for the breeze of your shore…

It stirs my ire, my king!
Perhaps someday I shall be reborn
By an ignition such as this but, within such an occurrence,
Will your love for me wither…

For I will hence be soulless;
My beauty will be bruised and distraught,
Merely one to blend into the mass of lost distress.
Then how will I be found, my love?
How will I be found…

©Jen2011 4-4