it is the treasures of love that often fool

conceled, conceited, always too cruel.

 

on the path of meloncholia, the lonely traveler stumbles upon a house 

made of ivory and honey.

it's candies reaching out to tongues

in a song so sweet--

so tender.

it beckens inside

the heart of gold,

unbenounced to the creature's scold.

 

inside,

an orchestra of sun and star,

burns untamed,

plucking aimlessely at strings of the heart,

untangling

and undermining

the sugar coat into tart.

 

as noon dies to night,

a cloak of light collapses around

weary shoulders. 

reducing strength to drifting dust

that rises

free and forsaken--

spotting grey the feathers of ice white doves

that circle, prowling, right above,

keeping secret the tribunals of love.