Towards what goal does thine arrogance take you,
Except for the destination of solitude and disgrace,
All I asked was what skilled hand could have made you,
And perfect their craft with the art of thy bonny face;
Nay, you call this purest passion wanton offence,
That I halt my Heart as it hurls at you, you say I must,
But for my time, affections, no recompense,
Only the ghost and ghoul of a lovelorn lust.
On Love's green and resplendent pastures,
I had been innocently frolicking, grazing,
But for sound of thy gun I haste to a departure;
To a void in the sky, from a supernova blazing.
A lamb of passion, with Love imbued,
You saw me weak and made of me food.