I find that love, when never marked,
is happier than we,
with all the kings around us join -
in fake philanthropy.

Though It cannot be weighed or judged,
Intention is the Eye.
To spawn, to yearn, to want, to lust
is blackest of black tea.

And yet - when Painful Willow fell,
and after decomposed.
- With bread and fish - the promised land
would soon become exposed.

Perhaps it is the flight or path,
which regulates the sty.
For after all we walk the path,
With no goal but to die.