Never has a shade so dark,
been so light.
To be but a feathery touch,
On a young man’s sight.
A smile of a thousand angels,
with hair o so sequacious,
That the mere veneer of Hazel eyes,
My heartbeat fears less tenacious.
I deplore! She must be a siren.
I will it so,
If only to explain how the whites of her eyes…
make everything flow.
And make my blood glow, with everything that soothes me!
Projecting life, voice, and a passion that moves me.
And when she speaks, she smiles,
And so my heart… flows wild.
And restless, as it could, as it would,
As it should…not.
For my heart was meant for living.
Beating that of blood.
Not so easily do I succumb to the sickly taste of love.
That dizziness, sambuca mouth, aniseed,
Tis most unlike me to wear my heart in my sleeve…
So maybe she is true?
That I should follow where my heart cries
And I should fall victim
To the siren’s Hazel eyes.