Of songs I have loved,
Those gentle pecks
And things I had in amorous embrace
Farcical have they be painted
In pretentious platitudes of need
For when it wasn't me
Coiled around, substituted
Painted to a fallacy of whatever
Pure vitriol, yet I have held back
For the raging of unbirdled love
Serves only to beseech
Things one cannot fathom
Yet speak of, in volumes of audacity
Like a chisel carving, a stone
Only to reveal and bring forth
The macabre tones of falsehoods
Where did the voice die
Of has it ever breathed
For if it does now, it would sigh
Yet I'd meet it with my gentle fingers
Cajole and contradict, and burn in fires
For it would all be mine to bear
The heart I have can only love
And it has not known to deny
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