2007

At last, I have that which I’ve sought awhiles,
Or, more explicitly, as now I’m learning,
I would thus have but for two thousand miles,
The one for whom I have this cursed yearning.
The portents do abound that warn of pain,
As if I’ve not considered consequences;
Yet if to live like this be deemed insane,
Prefer I never to regain my senses.
Yet what of she, the one who doth present
To me this insomnambulent elation?
Such ire will from her flow – not of dissent,
But that she wrote not first this proclamation.
From which enticing cup should we then run,
When antidote and poison are but one?