Salt

How charming words can ill regress!
If one could bite words off pages found,
Let it be those most ill they digress!
Yet could not tear 'love' from pages bound,
Still they argue amongst themselves a flaw;
Grief is set, the stage poured glass empty,
Each step come words poignant sharp he bore,
More is glass filled by gall juiced ill-contempt,
Taste me more! the blade creases flesh fourfold,
Yet in writing these give rise to designs anew,
Ones that are nothing but rises hardly bold!
Yet 'tis love, indeed; though I cannot renew,
By sea apart, no land departs, the sounds dispel,
Each step escaped, as they'd hammer strings,
Like naive cats playing then descend to pedal,
How fast they all run! All the keys a stair brings,
So leap once, now twice, but pause a second!
My heart is breaking, my member soring;
The grueling blood mingled in fluid beckoned,
Then he turned and paused, arpeggio fraught,
Now I am silenced, now I am the silence brought,
If there be any word from ye, a week now be ought,
Whence sorrows bring, charms sped is sought,
Though linger, hither and thither, each descend,
How beautiful the feel! So sour yet sweet a drink,
What is it then, how tastes ye mere raw limes?
Whilst with salt it is indeed less bitter ye drink!
It matters not; he walked away in bitter times.