Ichor

one; aown of the immortal

I craved a rose and
all his petals of desire,
and I loved plucking
each petal; he loves me,
he loves me not.
If I touched him, he'd
burn and his paper-thin
skin would be ashes
to the heaven; he loves me,
he loves me not.
You cannot tame what is
forbidden then why lust.
He was a gaud, a game, a
credulous, a guerdon from
heaven itself; he loves me,
he loves me not.
Nay angel would gift me
himself, "a disgrace thee,"
they'd say. The rose broke my
blasphemous fetter and pulled
me into a host; he loves me,
he loves me not.
Let leman and grudge thy skin,
'silly, you're no demon,' the angel
said as I tore away his silver wings,
I was stuck in his manacle yet
again; he loves me,
he loves me not.
I plucked each petal and kissed
each one, he shivered when I
touched and he cried when I hinder,
'why are you verboten?'; he loves me,
he loves me not.
He was scared, he feared my love
and lust, and he didn't like the
brush of our fingertips, he didn't
like fire for he was air; he loves me,
he loves me not.
A lost loon lest love alone;
for she thought wrong, I killed
my angel with his brushes, my
strokes soulless, thy onyx eyes
astounded and thy heartbeat trivial,
I plucked the last petal,
the time tends the tale it summons, too
late was I; he loved me, died the
last withered petal.

NOTE: this sucks, i know