The Curse (Of Love)

A more perfect center piece there is not.

More than just the attraction of the mind;

Without movement it impresses the lot,

Though these people are not what make it kind.

Where hath its beautifully craft’d men gone?

For it’s just a desolate chessboard now,

Four limbs from dusk until the jocund dawn,

With pond’rous mien always upon its brow.

Always ringing from its dark, angled top

Is a sweet chime that’s carried on the wind.

Heavenly as the sound of a dew drop

Is the resonance of those cords pinned.

Though it may appear beautiful to me,

It is just black and white; quite unlike thee.