The unattainable asylum

 

Brainless beauty is a peril.

Brain without beauty is still a thrill.

To me, however, you are a thrill.

My intellect, you titillate.

My heart, you mutilate.

I stick to the job and this venue

Only to see you and be near you.

When the job and the venue go

Where will I go sans you?

How shall I live sans you?

 In two years comes my civil death.

Along with it, goes my sensual death.

It is in your hand to put it off

By answering my calls

And sending your smiles.

Can you promise, my dear?

30.03.2000