The lingering scent of a thousand lover’s roses
Could cure an aching heart, but bafflement hunkers
Amidst what lovers would coil around.
They pray to such false idols and pretentious mysteries.
But what joy in their eyes and hearts, ecstatic fools,
So worthy of admiration and condemnation all at once.
If I could hold them like a child, cuddle them to peace,
And hush away their worries…I might question if I should.
Perhaps I am not so wise, but jealous,
That I have so much sense as to baulk,
And am wearied of the ignorance and bliss
That is set so neatly before me; lovers,
Do praise yourself, if only together,
You are truth without fact, and joy
Without any sense of reason or rule.
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