So you speak of love, and write sonnets to proclaim your vows,
flying high above the ground where no sound, but the song of wind
and fire never touch the earth.  And the rapture of your heart's degree
will fling itself upon the morning dew condensed from clouds that sail
            into the trail of captive night's escape.

It is the rape of dawn compelled to yawn into the breaking light
that wakes your dream into silent screams that  bristle with delight.
And though you write prolific reams of heartfelt verse at loves's request,
            do you know the reason of your wanton lust's progress?

It's not the joy of rising blood that flood's the flushing face,
or even lustful yearnings that embarrass exposed lace,
nor is it telltail shadows of a promise almost seen
that coming round to kiss the ground can be, Oh, so mean.

It's the fact that love can crucify in the hands of Roman pain
destroying all the beauty in a fury so insane
that once endured, the shattered pieces scattered on the ground
fell to earth so lovely with the tinkling of a sound
like drops of rain from heaven, with a music so profound
that upturned ears could not hear the melody come round.

And when you rise to the new waking sun with fire in your eyes
like a loaded gun remember, it was all in fun to play with feelings
just begun to simmer in a shadowed state, wasting like a profligate
who dared to reach beyond the view of those who never tried.

5th