Cupid's Scar

To love, is to bore a dead poet's word, Such Woven ends sway, they're torn apart. A dulcet psalm, Dwells in this woeful play, Destiny acts its part, genesis to its dour art. To love, is to balter with barberry thorns, Sobs upon the loam and beneath the grave. Aurora's charm is love, mortal's dearest. Kings fell and prophets became so naive. To love is to fetch, one's vile beating heart, What is wrath's curse, bottlebrush's cigar Dagger barbed with envy, do barges deep. Tender lips etched with a sizzling kiss's scar. To love is to hath, a feverish haste to corrupt, A ghoul, a beast or the Mourning Raven of east. Heaven's piece in sight, blonde winged puer, For once I wish, o murals wail a shrill of past.