When love becomes a masochistic moth
That yearns to feel the heat of passion's flame,
It chews a hole through sheets of ardour's cloth.
Its wings ignite, too close to blazing shame;
They glow at first with fervour as they feign
A beauty that becomes a painful game.
The tears can't quell the heat or halt the pain.
They fall to feed the weeds of sprouting dread
And drench the heart with beads of acid rain.
But rest assured that time will smooth and spread
The memories into the shrouded past
And stitch the lesions with a healing thread.
The day will come when joy will blink awake
To leach the sorrow from that phantom ache.
For Craig's "Terza Rima Sonnet" contest