To miss the emotion in intimacy
And the intimacy of emotion,
Is the curse of a pyric victory.
The wraith of love scorned
Is a starving hyena,
A self-serving carnivore of the soul,
Serially committing Seppuku.
Here is the cold, wet quayside,
Where sailors cast off hope.
With one foot aboard and the other on shore,
Hankering for neither and both.
Chefs that desire to have their cake,
And eat it.
But, fear that in their recipe,
Lies fate waiting to rise.
To show its lustrous ebony head,
Bobbing sealesque among the waves,
Black pearls of shiny promise,
Drowning, repeatedly, in icy waters.