The Curse (Of Love)
A more perfect center piece there is not.
More than just the attraction of the mind;
Without movement it impresses the lot,
Though these people are not what make it kind.
Where hath its beautifully craft’d men gone?
For it’s just a desolate chessboard now,
Four limbs from dusk until the jocund dawn,
With pond’rous mien always upon its brow.
Always ringing from its dark, angled top
Is a sweet chime that’s carried on the wind.
Heavenly as the sound of a dew drop
Is the resonance of those cords pinned.
Though it may appear beautiful to me,
It is just black and white; quite unlike thee.