There is no greatest love
than a scorned love.
A beggar at a door
calling softly
for fear of the Furies
and the scorching suns of Avernus.
A perennial lighthouse
never defeated by winds,
spinning in the night,
searching and moaning,
its flame aglow
piercing the darkness,
silently
hailing,
everlasting, everlasting.
There is no greatest love than
a scorned love.
Offered as a hand
trembling and brimming
of tender, scented
petals, disposed
on a white table
served and silent.
That always smiles,
that never blasphemes.
That names in whispers
such as a faithful penitent
willing to bow
swallowing its prayers,
so patient, so patient.
There is no greatest love
than a scorned love.
There is no greatest love,
there is no love.
The rest just vain roses
of abstruse lust.
https://searingwords.wordpress.com/2024/02/14/sub-specie-amoris/
