He holds her pale hand firmly in his grip
Lest she might slip away
Leaving him alone, desperate.
Never though has he held her love.
I keep that safe beneath my bed, in a box
Velvet lined; fragranced with youth’s lusting musk.
She was torn, that delicate faerie child,
Under Solomon’s wise eye- divided long ago-
Boys playing dice for her spoiled gown.
And though he might win her fragile form,
Always will it be a hollow shell, for
Her true love here claims her beating heart.