Looking For Ligeia

LOOKING FOR LIGEIA The last of feigning death, love now abides, tuberculin, infectious, inside her breast. She breaths emotion where your hope now hides, and clings to what Melpomene knows best. Dear tragedy of love, deep in her eyes, to love we die, or never love one bit. Your soul--once doomed to Hell--see now it flies renouncing every hope of ending it. Consuming as is love, the hate must flow, each seething, creeping, loathing will to fly, amongst what hope is left, one thought will show; to know the deep of someone, one must die. All of your will, which dieth, less for cause, has ended short of knowing who she was. © ron wilson