The Goose-less Gander
Do you love me?
Yes, with all my heart.
Then give it to me.
What, my love?
No, your heart.
She gave it.
He took it in his hands
and left her empty
of her source of love.
To another: Do you love me?
Yes, with all my soul.
Then give it to me.
What, dear heart?
No, your soul.
She gave it.
He took it with one impassioned kiss
sucked from her empty breast
and left her dead to anyone alive.
Do you love me?
Yes, with all my heart and soul and mind.
Then give them to me?
What, my most beloved?
No, I want it all.
She hesitated – then relinquished them.
He took them all,
one heart in hand, another kiss,
another empty breast–an empty shell.
This plundering philanderer scanned all around,
a looter searching for a treasure chest,
the spoils of his loving war,
this bird of prey
who loved to slay
whatever being loved him more
than he could ever love more than the rest,
hyena prowling Cupid's sacred virgin's ground.
But, none were there, his trophies on the wall,
not one with heart or loving soul,
not one with her perceptive mind,
left willing to impart to him
upon demand, her love, her soul,
her intellect – her gentle hand –
unless he gave to each the same
as all he stole through Amor's charm.
For all the hearts, the souls, he kept –
with all the "loves" with whom he slept –
none stayed with him to call his own.
He died himself a shell -- alone.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 864 times
Written on 2007-01-11 at 04:48
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