The Love of a Martyr. Of two cool blue moons are made her seductive eyes, With wingless hopes and sensational touches, she tries to fly, She seeks a home, arms of the one she can truly love, Fall lovingly into them, and flee to the stars above. She’s green skinned; I call her so, for her envy rises over all, For she has no man, she has no home, upon which she could call. No pinch, but a feeble touch awakens her from her drift, She awakens to be lost once more in solitary sphincter mist. Where every woman has a hand to hold, she walks alone, And the cherry trees don’t pity her, their blossoms don’t console. Nature doesn’t help to fight her fury; it grooms itself while she does, But Nature has its slaves in bounds, stealing the beauty, if it must. She walks barefoot, in sweet white tatters, glowing as much, While the blooming grasses compliment to her maddening blush. Yet alone, and unattractive to the mortal man, she is no beauty to the mind, For he seeks the artificial splendor, and ugliness well within confined. Can someone please tell her how much her tears mean to me? If I were not a dying soldier, my fairy would come alive, for me to see. comments please