For I have searched the corridors of love,

Empty and cold, drab flowers on the wall;

Far still by heart, fair little left to move

And yet, more less, my soul to so enthrall.

Were I a beast of burden—or a bird…

By instinct set to prance and procreate,

Happiest in the act, not in the word

Where love lurks as but lust to satiate.

Am I a puppet drawn upon thin strings

Of acid base—Oh what an irony!

Perhaps such contradiction might yet bring

Some sane solution to my anomie—

I fear for God, by sin I here atone,

For where is she that’s meant for me alone?