Poetic are those eyes,
That set fire to my deepest desires.
Colourful are those lips,
That besiege my loins.
A lust so obscure, a disease,
From which I seek neither remedy nor cure.
For passions so amorous,
Are seldom bestowed on commoners like me.
What use is life devoid of deep passions?
Of what use is a heart devoid of scars?
Of what use is man without love forlorn?
Of what use is beauty that shall forever be yours?
Therein lies a deeper problem in men,
Of wanting, needing and seeking.
In pursuit of such we neglect the beauty in loss,
The beauty in unrequited love, in death.
The beauty in the pain that follows the next morn.
To be broken and tattered,
Romanticised in glorious words are many.
But in pain you write,
Such infinite, intangible beauty.