For I have searched the corridors of love
Empty and cold, drab flowers on the wall;
Far still by heart, fair little there to move
And yet more less, my soul to so enthrall.
We’re I but like a burden beast or bird
By instinct set to prance and procreate,
Happiest in the act, not in the word
Where love lurks as a 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?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.