My lovely bouquet of spoiled beauty
whose lips have never tasted the flavour of this passion,
forgive this - my desperate assumption
that you might remember the softness of my infatuation
pressed against your hand -
the warm blush of color in your face
and breast.

Will thou waste thy petals on ungentle hands
and wilt in the lustful heat of prematurity
how spite you my displeasure in never pleasing you
In my practice of love, for what is life but love,
and if not love, what then?
but not that practice makes perfect
for there are many who are practiced
and none who are perfect;
I have kissed souls
drank deeply the essence of shame and fear
and stolen the illusions of romantacy

it seems I have forgotten thee
attempting at some seduction with all vanity
my words dipped in hearts blood too feathered
for the wind they flew upon
Has it been so long
that you forget my poetry
that you are unremembered of my poetry
I have forgotten you
Is there no passion

There are subtleties I cannot convey
I fear you are numb to my delicate desires
immune
and find my incendiary passions vulgar and repugnant
Oh sweet melancholy
that suffering should bear
such sensitivity to passion
in this waiting
is there no tragedy
do not keep from me our destiny
do not withhold that which you would give
tomorrow is not promised and I would taste your tenderness of heart
never hide yourself from me
you have hidden from me your happiness
my bouquet of spoiled beauty
as the flame will tickle the air
perhaps it is too lovely and bright
to appreciate - to really feel
music is like hypnotism
in dark hours
am I drawn to the flame of remembrance
may I enjoy your silence
Oh that you would love me
that way you long to be loved.