Poems Submitted by Our Readers

 	         II

So many mistresses before I killed,
By my cold passion's cruel inquisitors:
So many faithful hearts now bleed but stilled
The burning sentiment, that in my thorax roars.
Why doth this demon ride my sorry soul,
And makes me kill the one of my desires,
And makes me drink the last draught from the bowl,
Till mythic wine again fuels my dark fires?
Dear Lady, this to thee I do confess,
That thou shall turn thy step and take a leave,
Before my hunger makes me care but less,
About thy soul, thy spirit and belief.
  So many mistresses before I killed,
  With icy hands so delicate and skilled.


Severin Rast