The Love Song of John Smith

How then should I presume?
And where should I begin?
Dare I, dare I assume
My words her heart to win?

Am I to be a brute?
For them it seems to work!
O, Passion, bottled fruit,
So trapped by my pride’s cork!

Love seems so natural
(In my mind, ’tis but said!)
Yet how phenomenal
That I am so afraid!

So drowned by sirens’ songs!
So maddened by their charms!
Each day this body longs
With agony, cruel and warm.

The hero in disguise
Is he whose tongue is fool.
I cannot speak those lies!
So silence, then, must rule.

A silence fraught with pain,
Madness bound by a string.
A traveler waxed in vain,
For still the sirens sing.

They know nothing of it!
And still I am to blame.
Must I so calmly sit
And watch their botched up game?

O, Mephistopheles!
Tempted am I to bet
That of those fair lilies,
Any one could I get.

The devil with my care!
I know just what to say!
The color of my hair
Grows whiter every day!

And yet, what if she mocks
Attempts to bare my soul,
And hurls against the rocks
The words to make us whole?

What foolish beast am I,
So trapped in my own snares?
From Courting must I flee
For having found her bare.

Melancholy, my cave,
(Of hope, I am bereft!)
I hope one day ’twill save
The few words I have left.

But no!  Leave me to grief,
And let my tears be proof
That Love’s only relief
Is to be kept aloof.

For is this what I seek?
To gain a nightingale
Whose thoughtless chirpings reek
of boredom, rank and stale?

And is this what I want?
A molded empty mote
Who constantly must chant
A ritual learned from rote?

And yet, what else is there
Among trivialities
Where cruelty laid bare
Doth hide in niceties?

Am I the sole remains
Of empty faithless lines?
Or am I, then, the Fool
(And do they see the signs)?

My temple has no place
In worlds without a faith
Where Truth is but a face
Where Love is but a wraith.

So let me die in peace
Each day a little more.
One day, my hopes will cease.
Eros will be no more.

As summer turns to fall,
Then fall into winter,
I must forget the Call
To make them all better.

Their games will become Truth.
My rules will never be.
And then, as passes Youth,
My desire, set free.

Let silence be the rule.
Let Pain be what I praise.
If I am thus the Fool,
Then Love be but a maze.
Go on, you oafish boys,

And sputter all your lies!
If women be your toys,
My dreams, therefore, are sighs.

Aphrodite, goodbye!
You were my only love.
But now, Boredom’s dead cry
Is all that rings Above.

And now he speaks to her,
Not caring what he says.
And as I look at her,
She seems as in a daze.

She slowly nods her head
And feigns to hear him speak.
(But how her heart is dead,
For all his words are weak!)

A Cerce with a swine,
(Yet still her smile she keeps!)
His lust, the potent wine
Which lulls her to her sleep.

I yearn to offer her
The treasures in my tongue.
I need to rescue her
From boredom’s plaintive song.

How then should I presume?
And where should I begin?
Dare I, dare I assume
My words her heart could win?