When I awake I think on her only,
so that I see her hands, her hips; all day
through my own thoughts’ sights I’ve let her own me,
for then my nerves galvanize toward her ways.
So I suppose you think it mad, my path:
to shuffle through this fire & soot toward her,
only to see this beauty cased in ash
while tirelessly working to afford her.
But no, know this: no woman’s grace is bought!
by fortune, fame, or deed. No, it can not
be said that any man has earned his right
to own, or barter that for which he’s fought–
to let himself be owned, that is his fight,
or else he thinks he owns his waking sight.