Love Lost

Make haste thou my own
And reap you with scythe
What you have sown.

Bitter herbal, thou drinkest,
A potion deep, a draft succulent.
How didst thou findest
This herb so rare?
Tis wondrous, its fair flower.
Wilt thou smell the brief bloom of discontent
As it resides in the deepest part of thy truculent heart?

Wert o’er and thy smile hid
Beneath laden shadows of eventide.
Wert but a dream,
Descending into brightest sun
From moon swept night.

I knowest not thy heart.
Goest where thy will.
And in thy solicitude
Recall how thou didst
Smile with me,
Long and languorously my sweet.

Labor not to reap thy vanity.
Rather, labor truly to reap my heart
Ever wondrous and new
As it recalls the
Tenacity of love’s language.