If your river runs true to my sea,
it would be, sole sign of sovereignty,
my own exclusive tributary.
But lupine blood may flow still
within your veins; perhaps your wolfish
spirit you can tame or even kill,
though it would be most unfair and selfish
were I to end this tryst for three,
and prematurely solve our mystery.

Once I was chosen, a star without peer,
had I but your eye again, but your ear;
oh, had I but your heart again, my dear.
Too soon we seem to vitiate all care
glutting our feeling in cheap poetry.
Pretending in shows; loving on a dare;
promising ourselves in deep sophistry.

Forgiving is easy, in word; in deed,
it is harder, if I’m cut do I bleed?
If I bleed, do I die?  If dead, what need
have I of forgiveness or of hatred?
Truth be told, I have died many times now.
Your power to revive me is sacred.
At your altar of love, my knees bow low,
your doctrine of death is my holy creed,
and in truth dear, our troth may yet succeed.
But hasten not love for the sake of speed,
lest fiction o’er truth appear to exceed.