Oh, such sweet satire!
The tease which frames
This amorous pyre,
Becomes the most precarious of games.
And we, now engulfed in the flames,
Play along with unchaste desire.

And, speedily the moments drip past,
With unyielding, passionate decay.
Even the words of love seem crass,
Till there is nothing left to say.
But, these feelings won't go away,
And the heart shatters like glass.

Then the knife still stained
With the onions scent,
Slices through unashamed
'Till with the rose, it’s blent.
Maybe that’s not what was meant?
But, too late to be explained.