Love dies, sucked of air.

I hired a cunning poet
To pen her beauty and glory.
Not a verse but echoed her gaiety,
I began my Tale of Love
So subtly and so intriguingly;
That she grew helpless to ward off
Those words penned in sequence
And thrust to her in all reverence.
Her desire was set aflame.
Some dragons threw some water
And the boiling heart had frozen.
The milching cow turned barren.
No illicit love has enough air to burn.
07.01.2003