A Slave To Love
They tell me I’m obsessed with you.
That makes it sound like something bad--
As if breathing were some twee fetish for oxygen,
Or eating, an unwholesome food-fixation.
Can being compelled by bonds so sweet be wrong,
Or happiness be held a noisome thing?
If this is slavery, then joy must be my chains,
My manacles your gentle smile, your kiss.
We gladly bend our necks to yokes so fair
When favored with the servitude of love!
July 2, 2019
This little poem was written for the "Slave to love" contest, but was not considered good enough to place. Ah, well, chacun a son gout, I guess. I must confess I am pleased with it, notwithstanding.
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