Against my will, my love,

You shall compare me to the lungwort who,

With nervous breath,

Welcomes the reluctant anthems of spring,

And sings a song of her own that she hopes will

Stand the test of time,

But upon opening eminence eyes,

Sorrow walks in like rain uninvited,

To send shivers down her sorry spine,

With aqueous hands,

Wrapped around her neck with all the sternness and intent of a

Marble lion,

Whose silent roar renders her ears

Hopeless, useless, pathetic,

Much like the veiled sky which mocks the English

Sun,

Blindfold and desperate,

And she’ll pray for the deathly grasp of the closing year,

So that she can be reborn,

And feel the warmth of your love once more.