The hypocrisy of flesh
scorns its owner, pain unrelated to blood or battle
yet longing, turning inside to out.
Your face grieves me with its beauty.
I shall seek nature
corner her, and pin her to a tree
press my body against her, as I would you,
and make her answer -
Will you relieve me?
Let me not dwell upon you
and this low music only I can hear.
Respond to me, yet not to me
the lyrics say.
Other eyes fascinate you.
Other arms and lips tame your tempests,
and walking unnaturally through
forests of grey musings
your servant, madame,
never to utter