In truth, who wants to be a summer's day,
when sunlight hours give way to blackest night?
The bugs devour the darling buds of May,
until the last one disappears from sight.
A newly sprung red rose has thorns enough
to cause the staunchest soul on Earth to bleed;
and cloudless climes result in soil that's tough—
no nutrients exist for love to seed.
Let's cast aside the metaphors of old;
amusements with no purpose any more.
Instead, know this: my love will not grow cold
until the Reaper taps upon my door.
No threat, no pain, no niggling doubt or fear
can bring me to my knees while you are near.
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Author Notes
With apologies to Byron, Burns and, of course, Bill. I do love you all, really.
Thanks for reading.
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