Heartthrob
Upon her thorny heart I bleed;
My rose I nurtured from a seed,
With blazing bloom and perfume sweet,
Who pricked me with her warm deceit,
To where I gladly bade her leave.
Her eyes and smile they did precede,
A witchly soul that did deceive,
My love to stumble with conceit;
Upon her thorny heart.
If I could pluck her to be freed,
And rip her from my soul, indeed,
My lesson thus would be complete,
Sough not a love in lusty heat.
To this my penance I accede,
Upon her thorny heart.
Copyright © Claire De La Grange | Year Posted 2006
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