Francis

My love has altered me from weed to rose
Just so your eye may smell a sweeter scent.
Though endless seasons, mourning hope has shown:
My thorns have yet the grace to catch thy hand.

Nay, I deny desires the heavens stow,
But in this war my heart defeats my sense,
As banners wave and mock my wounded thoughts,
Blood turns to woe as quiv’ring cheeks are drenched.

Your guise, a beam that trumps a thousand suns
This stifled soul exclaims its yearn aloud:
“A glimpse!” it cries, “I’ve seen the high divine!”
“Oh, might I be a bird among those clouds…”

‘Tis far too grand for common man to reach
The pedestal you perch upon, alone
My dreams enact the hour you shall find:
Within my shattered bos’m awaits your throne.





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