The Thief

I used to have an organ beating,
In my chest, rhythmic repeating
The self same tunes for eternity;
It resides now no longer with me.

“Thief, where have you taken it?
Even love hath forsaken it,
Though the blood within it runs red
The heart you stole, in truth, is dead.”

The thief turned and tittered a laugh,
And said, “Ere you write its epitaph,
Fool, study your own heart before
You abandon life forevermore.”

And then, bewilderingly, she returned
The heart both Love and I had spurned;
I looked, and found to my chagrin
A tiny flame concealed within.

“Whence came this flame, thief? Reply!
Justify yourself, or provide an alibi.
What purpose serves this infernal light?
Why disturb the calmness of my night?”

“Your night was calm and still the air,
But your heart traversed it solitaire,
I heard its lament and came to answer.”
Thus Spake my Dionysian Dancer.

“Leave,” said I, “I will,” said she,
And left me to my complacency.
“But ere I go, know my name,
Fool,” said she, “I am that flame.”


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