When that I should stop looking at the couples passing,
Smile, thinking I've had my day, and retreat, musing
"Some people grow up and get married, and are happy"?
And I don't, because being yoked is what I see it to be:
There is freedom for others in love, that I in my wanderings
Have not found; I was not meant in all my constant ponderings
To be mortal; I was not meant to not question a tie to one:
I am condemned as the artist to observe, and taste, but, for one,
Never know, because I am Nature's scribe, and Chaos' vessel.
Perhaps one day I should concede, and cease to wrestle
With mortality, that there is a level-headed fellow out there
To be my foil, who I can wrestle with instead, through fair,
Unfair and to the last day of our wear down to dust,
Such a one who has my perpetual (grudging) admiration and trust.
I can see myself, crowned with fat braids, kneading bread
As he complains to me of the vicissitudes that rise from bed
At work, my writing in a tidy heap as the children, crossing swords,
Threaten to bring down our careful peace and all my words.
With doughy arms I reprimand them, and set them to the work
They yet think of as play, and sit, my arms around his neck
Whispering sweet words of comfort, wisdom, love,
And he'll look at me in turn, ready to move
Earth, sky, and stars, let alone fire his secretary...
But I, for now, only know how to write poetry.

Doubt truth to be a liar,
Doubt that there are heavens above,
Doubt in the burning power of fire,
Never doubt: I do not love.