Analysing Infatuation.

Diametrically opposed, oh what ironic
twists of pink arrows seem to
meddle and addle all
mine conscious thought.

All this time, the tap of fingernails on
ebony wood, on glass tables.
It sank in and I am bewitched
or so it seems, or so it seems.

Could this goddess be a fleeting
cerebral meeting, a figment of
imagination gone sour? Love
turned to folly, folly, folly?

Time shall tell, my dear, if, if,
such infatuations are as true
and if they are worth investing
in time and patience and

creativity. Eros knows no bounds
of words, words, words written down
in ink, in numbers, in circles.
And shall we meet? Shall it be so?

Shall this be love? Shall it be
companionate? Or this passing fancy
will it rot away like a trod-on
crocus flower? Time and only that;

my Chronos.