Her will versus mine: A poem 

I feel the rose of love, and feel composure 

like the breeze talking to the trees 

The leaves are patterns to the beholder 

Their veins are young, not a day older 

I can bleed from the thorns of a rose 

But the cut is not deep for flesh to decompose 

And some blood in me, I can dispose 

Love hurts with aches; yet we repose 

This faith is no broken mirror, no horror 

So often and sadly shaken, and put in a corner 

But it is no abused child; it will not hide 

It can be as lasting as life’s roller-coaster ride 

I can beseech the breeze to carry my whisper 

And the astrological charts, to fatefully cusp her 

But I am singularly united with chance to let be 

what the lines of her will want her to be