Love itself is twisted by denial,
Glory guilty left unguided.
Whispered, soft enchantments turn to guile
In understandings undecided.
Thrill the subtle softness moved
Where love is almost a harlot’s kiss.
But what is lust, but love unproved,
As temptresses are sunsets seen amiss.
Wrong to rest where love is lying,
Right to love the lie almost,
For beauty’s lie hints Beauty’s love undying,
As lust is beauty’s ghost.