Warden
Give me rage that burns and twists with pain --This softening does not suit me!
Does not the tear-soaked heaven reign
In Sydney Carton's Paris?
And of all the emotions I could abhor,
It's Love that stands behind that door;
Whose graceful strikes and strident gait
Plies the pyre of my lasting hate.
Even foolish Ophelia fled its dome,
And cuckold Arthur - undone by a lance.
Yet still, Caesar paid on the steps of Rome,
After he and Cleo shared a dance.
Make my anger my offering, my alms.
It bears my weight with stronger arms.
It fills my nights with sweeter visions,
My heart is stronger with no divisions.
In Stella's days, men stood above
And women clung to fill their lack.
But today, our warden is Love --
Who stubs us out and holds us back.
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