...written as though by Mr. Sark...
When Eros oft appears to the eye,
Bare-skinned in glorious immodesty,
He deftly strings Cupidic bow,
And straddles such with Love's own arrow.
But can affection sprout and grow,
In temperatures not hot, but well below?
Can such an arrow pierce, and then take root--
Or in a cavern iced are such god-like powers moot?
To love in sun-soaked tropics,
The baser body's needs do beckon,
But to quicken pulse and kindle
Passion? The cold doth naught but lessen.
And yet, I know, 'twas so with us,
For as I sought your frozen death,
At my affect some Cherub took true aim
And bloody, pinned, and staked your claim.
Impalation (as flesh sated) left me spent, inebriated.
Oozing, incapacitated. Seeing, Dearest, you alone,
And though the surgeon claims it
Ice pick, in thigh impacted,
I will know 'twas your desire, survival-bent and cruel,
Which truly, love's recapitulation first exacted.
Disclaimer:This work is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
by: Neftzer 2003 (c)
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From my website, Mr. Sark Writes Loves Poetry royaltoby.com / alias / sark.html