An Ode to Lost Love

Ode to Lost Love

Cannot my poor soul speak the gilded feather which is the sweet language of love, oh thou Madame.
My heart beats with your name, but thy relief is sent to me not from thy heavens, nor from the earth. What is a fraught man to do? But you.
For you are the rosy cheek, so soft as silk, on which I brush my hand, exulting in joy and longing.
You are the angel of my dreams. But has thy rose bear no thorns, marring me with wounds to convalesce for aeons untold.
My sweet misery thou has brought on, confess to me, please, free me from these chains.
It seems thy lovers fiercest burden be thy of shrouded veils.
It is no grander woe than a cloudy reflection in the eyes of one’s inamorata. This tragedy has broken many a-passionate and will destroy many held by the yet unswept sands of time.
And those fallen under enchantment see no way to escape, as if held in the grip of the beautiful Siren.
Be thy unlucky soul, and witness one’s world collapse upon ones back; a titan you hath become, bound by despair.