• Your beauty is a thief
    that steals the breath from my lungs;
    a tryant who commands the motion of my eyes;
    like a fire loosed in a dry wood,
    or salt rubbed into a soldier’s wound:
    your form is both the torment and the prize.

    How can I call it good
    when all pain and heartache
    are its proof and sign?
    Yet somehow,
    that fire and salt have a sugar’s taste;
    that thirst and burning, a savor like scented wine.

    Love is indeed the true insanity!
    When all else is reduced to shambles,
    and the lover’s heart, a place of ruin,
    he begs only for more of the same:
    a last glance, a parting word,
    the chance meeting of a pair of eyes…

    Ruin me! End me! Destroy this fool some more!
    The mention of your beauty alone undoes me;
    and that undoing binds me again,
    and chains this Sisyphus to his poetic demise.