Enter Love, the burglar in the night
Who looks a lot like Death and fills the room
Before we know he’s there—indeed, to whom
Decay has grown accustomed in the light
Of long exposure. Death prepares her tight
Destruction, carving out a hollow tomb
Where Love can nestle in the livened womb
And burrow to the egg without a fight.
For Love alone is strong as Death, they say,
And has the power to destroy her by
The means of imitation, in the way
That passive glass can kill Medusa. Why,
If Life is formed by an invasion of
A seed, should we expect the less of Love?
2 comments:
Where did you get this?
It sounds familiar, like I read it in a Renaissance Lit class a few years ago, but I Googled the first line and all I found is your blog again. Did you write it? Or is this a simultaneous gap in my memory and in Google's network?
WV: macemon
Aw shucks... I'm flattered to be confused with anything you might have read in an Renaissance Lit class! No, this one is mine, but no doubt influenced by the amount of Renaissance Lit I read in my day-to-day life.
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