The Oldest Lovers
The Oldest Lovers
To loathe is to commit a passion with
your nightmare, your nemesis, your own Hyde.
To dance the dance of hate, each side by side.
It is then, dear, perhaps the greatest myth
that they are free, the ones who plead the fifth
on the disease that rots away the bride
as she dances with the bane; tears dried
by the punishing winds beyond the cliff.
Hate twirls across the ballroom of our minds;
in his arms is Love, burning lips: white hot.
The devil, O’ he takes the love that binds
and ties with hate, the tragic lover’s knot.
To love or loathe, the other is entwined;
the fateful pair whom tragedy forgot.
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