Hark! crones wail at thy ev'ry swoon,
She, feint of heart—yet still, men loom:
See them preen, and how they croon
For her lady of icy contempt.

Cherubs weep and loose their nocks
To one so fractious of a fox.
One man's passion's a lover's pox
For her lady of amour dirempt.

Hearts a-cloven,
Our fates art woven
By the weal of seabirds a-firth;
Damned souls bereft,
Beguiled by deft
Hands of a most plummy birth.

So men turn their wretch'd heads south
On this winter of lost love's routhe,
Nary an ember to stoke, forsooth,
By our lady, despairing tender.

Thus homme and femme art cleft abroad,
Left to kneel in prayer to God.
By Hephaestus fire—be thawed,
Our lady of longing splendor!

Gnash thy teeth,
And boil and seethe:
Agents of chaos begone!
Twin flames in twaine,
Be whole again!
—'Tis darkest just afore dawn.

--William B., Adult