Luna-cy

Are you my heart’s desire? Are you my fantasy?

A spectral, ghostly galleon, tossed ‘pon cloudy seas?

At least that’s what the poet said, though I am not as clever,

Should I stop and pledge my troth, or howl, or perhaps whether

‘Twould be best to shed my skin, go Bacchanalic wild,

Run the forests with my kin, like a wolfman’s child?

Lose my clothes, Manead style, bray paeans to your name?

Run ‘round the place like luna-tic, till panting, I go sane?

Which frenzy is the better? Which suitor suits you more?

The chalice of the lusty loins, or freedom of the moor?

Shall I summon Eros, or instead call your hounds,

Please or punish manly organ, entering your bounds?

Can I drink you down? May I get a taste?

Draw my bow in ace-like fashion, positively chaste?

What can I do to win your favor? What shall I do or say?

Beat my breast and rend my hair, in some old-fashioned way?

Send love notes via owl? Run Atalanta’s race?

Smooth the lakeside waters for glimpses of your face?

Wait – where are you, ghostly galleon? Lost on stormy seas?

Why do you turn away, indifferent to my pleas?

Well, if you hide your countenance, mayhap, I’ll hide mine,

Before your cold-en fire would ice me with divine.

Perhaps I should visit, ride a ghastly nightmare,

Tame and ride wild Pegasus, but you don’t seem to care.

My spectre-ship has sailed, tossed ‘pon fright-filled night,

I, like your attendant stars, shall drift off like a wight,

I will slumber little, I think I hear a lark,

But lest I sound just like your hounds, I think I’ll dis-em-bark.