With this ill-conceived notion of
Whatever it is that flutters our hearts,
Looms in our chests, and infests
Our heads, so then with all invests 
Into a few words, should they be darts,
Would drive away our fickle dove;
Should they be mellifluous, however,

Enchanted will she be forever,
Our dove, no.  But for a spell,
Fleeting as dew, hither and gone
Like a Will O' the Wisps, to move on, 
To leave a wretch as if in hell,
Tortured; tied to his make-believe tether
Screams sorrow and agony from guilt!

Guilt which is fake, a monstrosity built
From wanton hate, for the true
Loathing of that dove, is really 
Black of heart, yet kneeling,
Does he find himself, but shoo
He should, this dove, but only court
He does, for the tether is taut

And strangles him, as freedom daunts
Just out of reach, and makes
Him just that much more servile
As blood is taken from his head while
Sweet lies are portended, slowly bakes
Until the lies have a truth which haunts,
His heart and visions of bliss

Dance unlike the illusions that kiss
Him, both untrue, but not for fate
Our hero would vanquish both
And not have tied himself by oath
As he stayed too long, to this mate,
Once sweet and mellifluous dove, a hiss
Never from her sweet lips had come.

But now her affection he does shun,
As of late he epitomizes slaves
Who had learned to love their
Masters, who they knew had fair
Black hearts, but holds tight knaves
As he fell for this dove; done
Is his freedom, so permanently tethered,

That he wonders how his feathered
Dove made a net so strong,
And yet be inexperienced at catching,
Those who would feed as a hatchling
Not yet weaned from sweet song 
And it grounds him.  Tethered
By the ill-conceived notion of Love.