Poisoned Love
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Poetry › Quatrain
Rating:
Adult ++
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789
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Category:
Poetry › Quatrain
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
789
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of poetry. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Poisoned Love
Be warned: metaphores, similies, and allusions abound.
Here I lie upon my death bed,
With flushed face and fevered brow.
And dancing about in my head
I have naught but thoughts of thou.
Infected am I with the sweetest of poison.
It has a delicate scent and perfume,
Not unlike that of the berry of Boysen,
Part cause of this heated illness: I am consumed.
Sweet angels sing lamentations,
Despairing for the loss of me.
I must ignore their dulcet declarations
For my whirling thoughts of thee.
It seems to me you took to heart
The guiding words of a renouned wife.
To the hilt you have played that part,
And caused my poor mind much strife.
'Look like an innocent flower,' said she,
'But be the serpent under it.'
Despite all sense, I was drawn to thee,
And have since lost all wit.
To the Father I must go,
And argue my most ardent appeals.
And even in doing so,
I know my future fate is sealed.
And on your darkest night, sweet snake,
Once Father has welcomed me as son,
With the sweetest pain will you quake;
I have triumphed. I have won.
And so the dreaded day has come.
My death is final and complete.
To your venom I have succumbed,
I tell you now, bid them all, 'Bon nuit.'
And now we find the truth of your seeming.
Do you hate me now, woman of deceit?
Will I die in pain or pleasure screaming?
Will you concede to me your defeat?
Your hair in clouds, veils my sight,
Skin smooth as silk my fingers entice.
I cannot resist: there is nothing left of my might.
A gentle claiming will not suffice.
Your arms are the writhing coils of a serpent,
Clutching me to you like a living fetter,
As the illusioned innocent flower is rent,
By antivenom in a French letter.
I can feel you choking life and love from me,
But I had to own you, even if damned I be.
If anyone wants to attempt an analysis, has questions, compliments, or constructive critiques, leave a review.
Here I lie upon my death bed,
With flushed face and fevered brow.
And dancing about in my head
I have naught but thoughts of thou.
Infected am I with the sweetest of poison.
It has a delicate scent and perfume,
Not unlike that of the berry of Boysen,
Part cause of this heated illness: I am consumed.
Sweet angels sing lamentations,
Despairing for the loss of me.
I must ignore their dulcet declarations
For my whirling thoughts of thee.
It seems to me you took to heart
The guiding words of a renouned wife.
To the hilt you have played that part,
And caused my poor mind much strife.
'Look like an innocent flower,' said she,
'But be the serpent under it.'
Despite all sense, I was drawn to thee,
And have since lost all wit.
To the Father I must go,
And argue my most ardent appeals.
And even in doing so,
I know my future fate is sealed.
And on your darkest night, sweet snake,
Once Father has welcomed me as son,
With the sweetest pain will you quake;
I have triumphed. I have won.
And so the dreaded day has come.
My death is final and complete.
To your venom I have succumbed,
I tell you now, bid them all, 'Bon nuit.'
And now we find the truth of your seeming.
Do you hate me now, woman of deceit?
Will I die in pain or pleasure screaming?
Will you concede to me your defeat?
Your hair in clouds, veils my sight,
Skin smooth as silk my fingers entice.
I cannot resist: there is nothing left of my might.
A gentle claiming will not suffice.
Your arms are the writhing coils of a serpent,
Clutching me to you like a living fetter,
As the illusioned innocent flower is rent,
By antivenom in a French letter.
I can feel you choking life and love from me,
But I had to own you, even if damned I be.
If anyone wants to attempt an analysis, has questions, compliments, or constructive critiques, leave a review.