So I’ve been showing my sparse blog off. One should expect to have people read the nonsense they publish, no? Anyway, upon showing it to one of my friends, Ashton, her immediate response was not praise, congratulations, or even mild interest but a scathing “why didn’t you put up the poem you wrote for me?”
Yes, I did write a poem specifically for her. I apparently promised her one more than a year ago, and sometime in August the Lady Shylock came to me demanding her pound of flesh (in all honesty, it was just a poem that she asked for, but the way she shook me down for one made it seem as if she wanted it in blood), and I did oblige. I don’t consider it one of my best, but the Lady requests that I show it, so how can I refuse? After all, hell hath no fury…
Her name alone makes ashes out of men:
She’s smoking hot, but burning in the end.
She draws men close in heat, releasing when
They’ve burned away to scatter in the wind.
Make no mistake, she does not immolate
In hate or misplaced jealousy or spite.
She’s not impossible to satiate,
And yet, in this she still finds no delight.
So why is it that she shines night and day,
Attracting moths like men unto the flame,
When they all turn to ash then blow away?
Oh, why is she still glowing all the same?
It is because she’s waiting for the one
Who, like her, burns as brightly as the sun.