Her latest lover, William, is a lazy boy,
who draws pictures on the sidewalk with colored chalk
and sleeps wherever his head happens to fall -
she loves him, in fact, needs him to breathe, but I ask you,
how can you love someone who says your poetry is
read only by foppish old men and women who smell
like petunias?
I utterly loathe him, yet -
when he walks into a room, she becomes golden,
an orb of light so serene I can barely look at her without
making the sign of the holy cross, illuminated sighs
fill the air, and her eyes, oh, her eyes are as blue
as a newborn sky on a crisp fall morning,
and her smile radiates a warmth so sweet and lush,
no fruit in any garden would taste as delicious.
Her poetry, the words I have fed upon for so long,
now remains silent in a closed drawer, locked away, while this William,
this boy with no talent whatsoever, curls against her
like an infant, asking questions a baboon would know the answers to,
as I sit by, thinking of ways to get rid of his body -
I sadly admit, I am cursed to love her from afar,
but must I suffer being the bump on a rhino’s arse because of him?
No! I shall steal her away for however long it takes,
plead my case (I am a barrister, after all) and kiss her lashes
until it is only my face she sees, my hands she feels upon her skin,
my words that bewitch her beneath a trellis of stars -
ah, my thoughts have wandered once more, my heart is heavy,
and now William the Wanker, has declared an end to the evening
with a yawn born out of eternal boredom, rudely loud, I might add.
Love, love, love -
it has made warriors into weaklings, intellects into fools, and kings
into common beasts, and as I walk this lonely street, I realise that I, too,
have fallen under its serendipitous spell; I will never again be as I was
for the want and desire of her, my lady, my divine poetess by the sea -
I take one last look up to the window where candle light quivers
and I bid a silent, adieu.
Will the Barrister ever win over his poetess? hmmmm...we shall see 
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