Blood swirls round my temples driving me insane,

And in my mind’s eye, drips carmine on my attire.

Lachrymal starlets trickle like rain,

As I knock over the object of my desire

That he gave me.

A carved Nubian prince galloping through St. Thomas

Was his gift of love craftily concealed.

Not a promise.

But why do I feel

As if I was so masterfully wooed?

The red, aching core of my being begs me not to repeat,

Give, give and give until hands are empty,

As I am foolishly wont to do.

To Passion’s double in the mirror I entreat

You to fly high above the pain,

And remember the blessings gained.