Wednesday, 13 February 2013

au chocolat

Another year hath come and gone, and little heart I hasten sworn,
That if I had, and knew this would, I would not let thee go;
‘Tis my own choice (and none too scorn’d), that from my stomach’d heart is born,
‘Sif all my life I’d come to know and love thee more with each day grow;
My fondness for thee has come ‘gain as if I were with thee to grow,
And this I sworn’d I know.

Doth not it seem unruly feat, that taste of thine lips bittersweet?
I cannot say I do not feel distinguished by thy black or white;
Thine smell! Thine taste! Thine bodied heat, that melting sickly sorrow’d sweet,
Hath helped me through the darkest day, and through the coldest night,
I think myself, ‘How could I live, another tasteless night?’
And this, my daily plight.

Come Valentine’s another year, ‘tis thee I wish were only here,
I’d substitute for not another, though all men could care but less;
One pass’d day’s worth of wordly fear, which makes all but dismiss thee, dear,
That cheaper to purchase thy love, which before best these tongues caress;
Or steal thine kiss for lips so parched for melted bliss of god’s caress,
And I consider myself blessed.

Thine hurt my still! These wretched guts, that wench’d placated with vile nuts,
And sacrifice! Devotion, too, loyalty next to almost none;
But how could I ‘main mad with thee? The way thine taste has set me free?
The way to earn a man’s heart through his stomach (though his heart be shun’d);
All the while truth you held too close, so knowledge were to shun’d,
And (lies of) bright tomorrows shone.

But talk is cheap like ‘morrow’s price, so fit for such a sinful vice,
Proven my heart’s ‘dicted still indulging sweet tooth stomach sore;
Thy thwartful swat of perfect hands that know not where mine heart then lands,
Please ask of whispers from the wind, that birds of black may speak of lore;
Much like my favourite ebony tasteful delight of the years of yore,
Quoth the sin’d bird, ‘Nevermore’.

Hush, maiden, thy misunderstand! How can one speak of sorrow’d part?
Such folly for the thoughtless soul, my love, thine own, au chocolat.

p.s. i want to change the title as it gives away the subject way too easily.

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