The Snake

Your poisoned kiss is no more harmful than a bee sting to a man who has a cure for serpent's love. I'd rather not endure this unrequited craziness again. The middle of the night, the lamp, the pen, the virgin notebook and the impure, half-naked thoughts of you. You won't lure the author in a trap, nay, dear Anne. Ink in the blood - that is my antidote. This sonnet is my magic spell, so mote it be. Alas, it's must be put remiss. There is the snake as pretty as a woman, as deadliest as love so no human is able to survive its poisoned kiss.