Love to be Contemplated

He spoke an ode or odium to truth,
whether of twain is yet unknown,
in his lofty rhetoric;

"Let me place you on a pedestal,
my honey, my sweet, my doll,
my little silly goose.
You are my treasure, my heart.
I'll give you the moon and stars."

Statues are to be gawked,
displayed as side show freaks,
immobile on their rigid columns.

Honey is bate for flies
with its sickly yellow color
and if one where made of sugar;
maple blood and gingerbread flesh
are only for foxes to banquet upon.

And who would truly desire
to be decked as a china doll
in rosy red larva spun finery?

Silly geese are easy dinner slaughter,
easily led to the chopping block,
and innocent feathers easily plucked.

Treasures are kept under lock and key.
He'll put you in a closet
never again to be free.
Bolted shut behind the darkness,
no one will ever see.

And why must I be burdened
with doubly pumping bloody life
and left to feel the emotions for two?

Already, broken promises.
Did he ever mean to attempt,
to fulfill any of his tokens?

And if he could,
what use have I for the moon?
Stars, just as flies,
within a day they die.
Fallen stars, distasteful.