Than one that beats and bleeds for fickle love,
Whose wild attentions swing and glide and fall,
Like blind funambulists at play above.
Such barbs of cruelty spill from perfect lips,
That do not know the taste of contrite word,
And so resentment forms from grains and drips,
Compounded by the blame so oft inferred.
How dry the earth we walk when on this path,
Bereft of life and joy and kinder things;
And wishful are the thoughts we choose to have
While every moment hurts and burns and stings.
Better the heart that does not beat at all,
Free of the warmth that has me so enthralled.