PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Atthis---I have found new love that is not like yours:
hers is curvacious; therefore, not capricious;
not bifurcated (she will not lie down with whores),
nor willing to abandon me with any slight.
No!, hers is salutary, giving, not malicious.
And I need not wake in, nor wish an end to, any night.

Her modesty is balm; she is not some proud fool.
She does not seek the crowd's attention, or acclaim.
Her beauty far surpasses yours, and yours is cruel---
much like a storm, a plague, a famine, or a blight.
She never says my poems raise her contempt or shame.
And I need not wake in, nor wish an end to, any night.

You made my life a desert.  She has raised new springs
of cool, pure water, and the waste land comes to flower.
You drove my poems to silence:  for her, each one sings.
Nor does she play bored games with me as pawn in plight.
Her least glance strips you, Atthis, of your morbid power,
and I need not wake, nor wish an end, to any night.