My beloved poet, where is your heart today?
Does she still keep your heart in those skies high above?
As she feasted with no man rejoicing, you lay.
Most days I pray to imbibe your letters with love.

Tell me, did you cry as she swallowed your heart?
Was it the resentment or the fear in her face,
As she held you frail, still and chained in your art?
She displayed you bare, as she bit down to your base.

This hagiography had already been writ,
As you arose in parts by no grace of your own.
How did you dream & how did you sleep? Still, to wit,
In your spirit held its decay, once your words sown.

My beloved poet, who did you love the more?
Sights of your heart, or a new vision of grace fore?