Syrinx Poem by robert dickerson

Darling, never run
from Loves' beck as if it were
a malediction:
remedyless harm is done
to them that run;
consider the addition.

To each heart heartbeats
are given in finite number-
many or few, what quickens its
pace abbreviates
its mortal course because
the sum is squandered faster.

Use your head, not your heels, then,
and shod with new purpose, slowly hurry
toward love instead of from him:
only from him into darkness and doom-
save, in my arms those wasted beats-
save them to buy warmth and breath and sleep.