Your impassable response leaves only a small sting
As left by a wasp in angered defence.
Where once a hornet's mark remained swollen and sore
A scarred reminder twinges less in remorse.
I have no expectation in the divine circumference
Yet karma seems another matter of balance
The fickle heart is never as imperial nor as metric as two equal kilos on the scales
And desire is regularly outweighed by resistance.
The glowing embers of belief,
Cast callously from the fire extinguished of all ardent desire
Can manifest in the word
To attempt meaning in a lustre.
So I wrote a letter to my beloved,
Whom I hold dear without demand
And waited on in the silence
For unabated sound.
My Love's sting fresh and gaping
More the wood wasp's might
Cause for hesitation, second thought
And fright.
My Love's inferiority
Subject to make-believe
In catastrophic thinking
His intellect fails to see.
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