ironic Nights Poem by David McLansky

Living in the bubble of her hate
I twist about incredulous of my Fate;
I, who fed on love like breathing air,
Should live imprisoned in this Ogress' lair;

I, who counted sweetest all things gentle:
Refinement, wit, and goodness elemental,
Savoring all that taste and grace do bring,
Should live within this coarse and vulgar ring;

I, a creaturre bred for temperate weather,
Delighted by the softest feeling pleasure,
Confounded by a hate that poisons souls;
Enduring through the nights as they unfold.