I'd peel my wantings off, like an old tattoo
and skin myself the names of these lovers:
Aphrodite, Apollo, darling Eros, too.
Rip that gold scab the art of a dragon
Desire had marked me on the day I was born.
What stains me with hope leaks on the coffers.
What I cannot stave, I will treat like roses;
gardens would bleed with each root I pull.
Surely love jests me, love must be cruel,
eludes me to waltz in its ballroom of noises.
For what are these beauties not mine to keep?
I am swollen with stones I only could weep.
How will the works be fruitful and true
when mercy has left me with nothing to do?

© Mav P.