By Bud Koenemund
The deadliest monsters will sometimes bait;
Enticing the naïve by melodies;
Infusing ev’ry song with oaths to sate
Desire – ‘til choruses turn elegies.
The truth, it seems, is that you were never
My muse, and this poet sought creation
In a daydream; no more than some clever
Figment built by his imagination.
If it be necessary to place blame,
‘Tis my heart – deceived at first sight by eyes
Blind in worship – which merited the shame
I bear; a failure that lives undisguised.
Many fiends hold
power to make love sin,
enemies too oft’ lie within.