My Laura

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.