He holds his thoughts like hammers;
         his skull is hard as brass;

His forehead knuckles like a fist;
         his eyes are molten glass;

The nose and chin, a trireme’s prow,
         surround a mouth for war;

His words pierce like the ramming spike...
         and how he hates the whore!

She’s liquid though, like velvet oil;
         he can’t discern her ways.

She always is in active flow;
         her answers are a maze.

His guts curl into wooden knots;
         forgiveness feeds his doubt.

No longer is he certain of
         that which he must find out.

Ah, Masoch would be proud of him...
         the way he courts the pain;

he sucks the breast of jealousy...
         here comes the rage again.

“I demand of you, Beauty...
         no one beholds like me;

Just tell my heart my eyes have won
         and I will set you free.

I promise you, Beauty...
         there are no other eyes;

nor heart to hold your hidden things...
         there are no truer lies.”

But our poor hound has lost the scent
         her veil is master here;

The ever jagged pulse of hate
         has soured into fear.

However could she tell him
         he is the only one?!

Just like all the others are
         when love is said and done.

She coils there in the chamber
         where passion knelt to pray;

Her head lies on the pillow where
         his cares all fled away.

His memories still burn like suns
         perceptions fill with night;

His reason and his ransom
         have vanished in the light.

“I declare to you, Beauty...
         no one beholds like me!

And in my heart, I know I’ve won
         but I won’t set you free.

I promise you, Beauty...
         there are no other eyes;

Nor heart to hold your hidden things...
         there are no truer lies.”