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.