Schism
She snores under Night's somnolent veil,
Far from quiet throes of his teetering sail;
Her pulses come and go in silent throbs,
Attuned to trigger no lover’s salted sobs.
Her breath kicks in and out in frail wafts,
And makes sullen breather and her lover
Immune to stingy Love's meanest dose,
Both unhurt by Time's estranging cover.
Both lie on the false-soothing couch of hope,
That dupes naive souls to wait for riper days;
More fecund seasons marked by richer crop
To nurse Cupid’s stars and prop their praise.
If heavens their rationed graces further hold,
Her hushed snores and his dreams shall die;
And the two loving aspirations end in naught;
A sad tragedy like of Juliet and Romeo of old.
She's laden to death with yet unrequited love,
And he dies for a brief feel of her turgid verve.
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