Until thy own heart is content,
Thou shall not be happy,
A mornful tide shall fall upon thine mere mortal of life,
and wisk away all hopes that serides.
Until thy own heart is content,
Thou shant back down from a gesture,
of any means or mines.
A dagger can fall and break,
Thou shall not budge upon where I lay.
Until thy own heart is content.
Until thy own heart is content,
I shall not accept my grace,
I shall not hence anything that hithers my say so.
Until thy own heart is content,
I shall rid the hatred of me,
and find longing in unspoken peace.
Until thy own heart is content.
Until thy own heart is content,
Thou shall not see joy upon my face.
Thou shall not you see morn.
I will be blank as a canvas,
That mere artist paints upon.
Until thy picture is drawn upon my skeletal brow,
My heart will not be content.
So paint unknown artist,
Paint my hearts to its content.
by Chantel McGleno
(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)
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This entry was posted
on Friday, March 9th, 2007 at 10:02 am and is filed under Love Poetry, Sensual Poetry.
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