octave ii

I steal upon the deluge flooding wide,
There are no folds to oblige the promise-rite.
I take the lodestar for my constant bride.
Though every man would look upon her sight,
In me, and only me, will she confide
Her smoldering will, impassioned, charring bright,
That claws the viscera within. The soul -
That killing flight - will nail me to the pole