Merciel

To wean off her is unlikely these days.
She tastes like Eden’s roses that pricked me
last Summer. Autumn ends. Winter remains.

Her emeralds eclipsed the Sun and stained
my sight with light that tints everything I see;
to wean off her is unlikely these days.

I sheltered in her home as seasons changed
but fled from her when I spotted the fleas
last Summer. Autumn ends. Winter remains.

I crawled through wilderness and ate of grain
but never found melons that taste as sweet;
to wean off her is unlikely these days.

I circle homes in which I’ve seen her play
and vainly cry for mercy–to reprieve
last Summer. Autumn ends. Winter remains.

Therefore, I had no choice but set aflame
her homes, her gardens, and even her fleas.
To wean off me is unlikely these days.
This Summer, Autumn ends. Winter remains.