There is a quake in the belly of a demon called love

fixed on your presence

well

because your beauty is not enough

there is no compliment

that will settle and rest

neither word nor phrase

will capture your essence

only these fragmented pieces of your fantastic puzzle

casting dazzling questions of enchantment

rose petals to the feast

and eyes to the dawn of conception

while lies lie still

bundled up in your satchel of wheat untasted

and death be not what it is

fore to die to what was

is but to live again

and am I

not but the touch that longs to feel

and do I not

stand in the furnace that houses the blue flame

and plead for you to pluck me with your thorn

to tear me limb from limb

to mend me

to you

my pulse

in the womb of true love

yes

there is a quake in the belly of a demon called love

and how you threaten to consume me whole.