After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 114'
It seems the birds and trees do not despair
the loss of nest and leaf. The air is still
this early in the morning, it's her fair
and virgin skin I'm drawn to. I am ill
with love, I'm pulled from good and into evil
by this intoxication. From deep inside
my self I thirst for her, she is the devil
that's tempting me, the woman that my pride
convinces me that I deserve. I fiend
for her at dawn and dusk, I cannot tell
the end of this desire. O sure friend
is this brief world itself a furious hell
assailing me? I am left without doubt
in face of a terrible god that calls out.
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