Disquietude Poem by April Michelle Wolverton

Two conscious lovers
can not be held in such regard-
for fickle-ness is but a Red Herring,
wading as indiscreetly as we.

But to Expect is of no use-
I must accept that which I can not choose.

And I, the less-than-permanent stain,
grapple only to perpetuate-
while the tongue, non-retractable,
inches closer to betraying its fidelity.

But that venerable House will not break-
It stands firm, unable to give in its take.

'Hush, ' says she,
pining for sterility,
and behold this inaudible gasp-
it daringly flees the nape,
suffered within my grasp.

Now! The thigh-grabber ceases to spread-
And as he quiets,
the soles grow pliant-

The Historian implants his memory.

But I only wished to sacrifice the part-
and now love, I fear, is a dying Art.