She calls me names;
gorgeous lover, sexy poet.
What does she see in me?

How can such a Venus as she
believe such simple untruths ...
does she see her own beauty reflected in mine eyes?

I wonder at the frivolous fates,
mischievous muses composing such a script,
can the leading lady love the villain of the piece?

She sees through me,
sees the essence, no shining glory ... just twilight
and yet still she finds the child?

And all I ever did was tell the truth
and talk of why's and where's with open intent ...
and now she calls me names?