The moth that burned the flame

O thou lady moth,
Holding 'this' and 'that'
in your hands both,
Accuse thou me the flame
and put all the blame
on my burning male flame.

You say,
keeping your own mischief at bay,
that I burned your wings,
How stoutly self-justification sings!
You blame
fully aflame
that you scalded your skin
in going around my fiery orbit's din.

Dear, let me share this,
Lies lie buried under your kiss 
and a selfish hiss
under thy whisper soft
and the best fakery held aloft.

You complain of scalded skin
and bruised wing,
But what of me?
If you could ever feel and see!
You just feel the heat
of the fire,
o thou liar,
The fire that burns in my heart's each beat,
It was merely warmth,
as your miseries swarmth,
to melt your rigid icicles of pain,
And amazing was the gain,
You bloomed and flowed,
Your face glowed
with a new lovely hue,
And now thou rue
that it was a scalding, furious fire,
O thou my sweet liar,
Know this that,
my wily cat,
you pierced my heart
with your sweet poison's dart,
And drilled a hole in my flame,
putting on me all the blame.

Thou proudly walk away
with all coquettish sway,
leaving a hole in me,
which nobody can see,
A hole more fiery
than my entire flame,
And the crown of shame.

You hurl accusations
with a shine in your eyes,
But you should know the flame dies
hundred times
for each little scald of yours.