I've sent letters,
but, she waits.
One letter received,
in it, she states:
I'm not your meal
so discard the plates;
your silver wears me down;
so do your dates.

Into my lair
I solemnly hide,
in token despair
with no wondrous bride,
and down in the gutter,
whilst churning the butter,
the demons do mutter:
my mind's open wide.

I take a vacation
to find some elation,
but lo and behold
I find her there, old!
How is it I'm mired
in paradox transpired
how could she have waited
till she grew old, vacant?