an arrow to a harp was my love,

straight and true, yet totally devoid of mark,

for now a golden Grecian boy

lies listless on the parquet

as notes still massage the night.

clothed in ash cloth, yet stashing jewels all the while,

like a magnet to a bone

under six feet of philodendrons

and ancient Irish bards.

a guard to a heaven was my love,

gilded in white-washed sanctity of the sacred souls,

armored with the bosoms of all that is holy,

blazoned with two red-hot poker lips,

and decorated with the stripes of thirteen disciples.

a race track to a muddy field was my love,

pulling around in eternal flame rubberized circles,

spiking the sun in the eye

until it oozes clear into the new day,

giving it all up for speed, blessed speed.

and now my false love,

that race track to heaven’s tomb,

guarded by muddy fields of arrows

and beggars on harps,

lies no more.