I share in Petrarca\'s woes; however my
Laura isn\'t dead. Nay, what\'s more, she
Smiles as she\'s ne\'er smiled before; oh,
And her hair glistens granite, hugs her
Snow-soft neck. Her eyes are Winter,
Her tongue the slave-master\'s whip.
Her words are honeyed poison; every
Night I take a sip, to fan the flames of
The heart. See, my Laura hides not twixt
Dirt and grotesque marble slabs; my Laura
Smirks and smiles, judges silently; brow
Raised in playful investigation, she weighs
My soul. My Anubis, my Aphrodite, my love!
She partakes in childlike banter and pulls
Me along; I feel the pain of millions, yet feel
Hopelessly alone. My Laura; blessed be her
Devil\'s heart, blessed her steel shell, iron-
Thorned, which encompasses a glass soul.
Laura, darling, we need not play pretend
Anymore; though we\'re strangers, I know
Your soul.