In my moments of desolation,

Expectancy is the hand that cast

A thousand heartbeats,

The cigarette,

Which so often drips from her lips,

As wisteria does weep tears of purple

From country cottages,

Oh how she turned the nag’s head from

Granite to poultice,

Which once did whinny with grief,

But now sings songs of summer and rain.

 

And while obsequiousness proves fateful for

Those who follow the wrong heart,

I would be foolish to mar my breath with

Complaint,

When it breeds such joyousness and relief,

For one man’s prison is another man’s paradise,

Oh! How blessed I would be

To spend my final living days with thee,

Behind the castellated walls of your love.