My desire does not cease. Its finger, obsessed,
Accuses the noble face, like fierce Rome, of death.
And here I am, divided by what I might say,
All Beginning, Finality, descends to Heart;
Never does devout constitution sustain love.
Cynthia, never less, your pour-over in song like milk.
World grants us: we will not be quietly softened
Nor will our likeness be possessed by a simple phrase.
Tendered we must know: Will we not break apart? A mystery
Crushed poor Prometheus into a grain of sand?
I will not ease, I become flame: drawn, life ruins its path.
Though many may tame its raging love.
None but the first long breath of a soul swells
So immensely that it forms it own gravity.
So I make a portrait of its withering grace.
As though no one has ever aspired to lament their Love:
So affirmed is the despondency held in the portrait’s heat,
Its severity and nature cannot be recalled.
Yourself: a small picture of a world at its own end:
Cynthia from the very beginning, Cynthia at the end.
-- P. J. Moriarty