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.
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