As we sat at our desks
furrowed brows, tired breasts
shoulders hunched and minds squared
toiling through sighs
and night’s rightful rest
like moths incensed,
kindled
by the vocare of immortality,
reaching for your sweet charms, yet
O Vocation! you are but
a fickle mistress.
You pick and you choose,
you love and you discard
your whim
proud harlot’s wile
O Destiny’s child, you make us
paupers
feel so lowly and then
so great!
Your fingers of doom outstretched
clasp each in euphoric rest
cradling to your bosom tight,
failings and if ever our might.
Yet as lovers we do reconcile
to each sweet tender embrace
tight
fragrant memories of
times forgotten, bliss forgone
having
burdensome though, our cares
to carry and to share,
We be frail as lovers be
till judgement day
fragile, a-waiting and lonely.