Transmuting love to hate: It’s not so easy.
Though gold to lead, you’d think, were not so hard,
The alchemist must always be on guard;
Lead slips to gold again; a light and breezy
Stray memory, let’s say, and he gets queasy:
Some morning and a look of kind regard
From pillow-tousled face: A brittle shard
Right home to heart. And transmutation looks, well, sleazy.
Stand to your bench, stout alchemist: don’t shirk;
Self-care’s the first law. And you need the lead
For ballast; and who doesn’t sail? The work
Just must be done; so put aside your dread
And every feeble idle loving quirk;
Forget your heart, for once, and use your head.
This late blooming poetry is wonderful keep up the good work!
Honestly, in my case, never more than now, and certainly never more broadly.