Poem: Nature


“They say lovers are happiest when they are in doubt.”
-The Duchess of Padua, Oscar Wilde

So, it is love, then,
This doubt,
This knife’s edge across whose metal
We stumble and patter.
This precipice, this brink whom
I teeter over, so precarious
So dangerous.

Oh! It is love then,
Whose heat I feel so keenly
On my brow.
Whose grip is death and life
Whose hold I scrabble for,
hand I grasp.

Why, is this love, then?
With words so glittering,
Arms so welcoming,
Teeth so sharp and eyes so bright
As to entrap me all.

It is love, then,
That we whine and writhe for,
Sprawl and scrabble over,
Fight for and fall into.
It is a simple twist, a warming vice,
A rising and a setting sun, the wax and wane of a long year’s moon.


I made a university friend with this poem. Well, potentially at least.

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