I Sheathe My Sword
By Nick Roen
What wayfared wants, wont yearnings, I -
When looking, seeing do desire
your face, fair, which does dare conspire
with limbs toward flutters, faints - must fight.
Fine frame, sweet shape sublime, has blessed
my eyes beholding beauty not
intended to tighten taught knot
found rising, roused rogue in my chest.
And so I, lovely sinewed soul
turned tempting enemy, do duel.
Hurl hellfire darts, doused flaming fuel
toward mind’s made model of him whole.
How conflict clouds clear-minded thought;
Should he, in Image pure, feigned foul
be disposed to derision’s scowl?
Or can pure patterned ways be wrought?
Can I, now noticing pleasure,
steer said sentiment to pure ponds
of selfless sacrifice - blessed bond
of friendship? Found lonely loves cure?
Fair friend, I love you, yearning toward
innocent intimacy in
pure pacts found free of twisted sin.
Life-giving love, I sheathe my sword.