la danse triste (1st edit)



There is no form of any man you see
that is not shaped to fill your empty eyes,
nor could you ever bear the truth did 
he,
but glimpse your history or unveil your lies.
He, pride shaped like an ancient knotted tree,
bereft of beauty, un supple and unfree,
fears gentle things that call to mockery.
You, beg his strength imploring mastery,
become the perfect sheath to passion sate,
cull from him life to see it dissipate,
weakness to weakness you find each others fate, 
Vengeance, forgiveness, forever disparate.
Inform me then, when you are bruised and torn,  
his life’s seed and his anger’s venom gone,
do you feel him grieve at such vast emptiness,
or fire your scorn as all his power’s spent? 
To hold you for your joy and ask no kiss
unchanged by sorrow, grief, or tenderness,
while you feign nights of love’s betrayal free
I am within, the one you dare not be.
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