My head is a treasure chest full of these fantasies.

And she can sever it from the precious river of blood--
Then a slow decay will work upon my locked skull.

She can peer inside, and decide I'm not a gate to heaven
But a dead branch, a stop along the way
Better used as fodder for another life, another day.

We can talk, and tease
And play that way.

But this is the reason I toil under the hard sun:
She can open up my mind
And wear my thoughts like jewels on her holy head.

She smiles as she adorns herself with my deepest loves
The fruits of my labor become the clothes that she wears.

O woman, won't you come open up my chest
And harvest this hard-fought loyalty from my weeping soul?