Misty Lady

			
Your bitter kiss, ah, but this you know—
Sweet misty lady, sweet terrible joy—
Your trophies — of which you have many — show
How seriously you play the queen of Troy.
Misty lady, know that for those around,
The fleets, these soldiering feet, the eyes that search,
The ears that strain to hear your sacred sound,
Do so for you. The bodies of the church
Pulse and writhe in fits of shame
Their will is not their own, but were it so,
Their senses would yet heed your whispered name
We, the humble defenders of your kiss,
Strive past one another in hopes of bliss.