Less than Holy, and yet all too wholly
I surrender me unto whispers warm
At best, unrighteous, and yet, not folly
I drowse placid, composed in lover's arm
There be not true comfort, but be not harm
Unafraid of kisses tender, love rests
Though cautious of losing splendor to charm
Blood mingled, young lovers, their passions test.
Heart beats like seconds, a clock in his chest
Lines cheat their rhythms, sonnets weep words wet
And black hands turn left, unsettling lest
Love be not small, sonnets freeze in cold sweat
Yet love seeks not fortune, wants nothing more:
His wholly unholy heart to adore.