Is it any wonder that I sit and ponder
Upon a pond holding no answer; faith sacked,
my soul asunder, by my greatest blunder:
what I see in the mirror, my fear of her.

That crystal water, from which I slip and falter
upon viewing its sewing of my image,
does haunt me with its gaunt plumage;
beautiful, and disturbed by reeds of punishment.

Sticks of which I cannot switch off
mar the stitch I wish to bewitch,
with the twitch of my wrist,
upon her ears, turn her to tears.

But these words are for cowards,
better suited to please a cow herd
than deep rooted damsels, solid footed
with good counsel; I deserve only a morsel.

Yet I get not that, but only this cat
to sit at my foot and howl and hoot.
In the end we are great friends, wound mends,
and like my dreams he'll die within my seams.