Mountains are immovable, defeating
Except when worn by a mustard seed faith.
Your love for me is transient, fleeting
Gone so quickly, it is more like a wraith.
You have too much love, like Henry the Eighth;
There's ennui in your arms; death in your gaze.
And she may be new, but you can't have baith.
I believe this is only a phase.
Then, you stroke her hair; wake me from this daze.
You are not a mountain, you are the sea,
Ocean waves that drown in a nightmare haze.
You could not be worn; you're water eroded me.
And though you killed me, I crawled from my grave
Saw you're a rip tide; you don't love, you lave.