A sonnet I wrote two days ago leaves Cupid feeling a bit self-congratulatory. He makes a sacrifice so Psyche needn’t suffer at the hands of Venus. In today’s poem tried to beat up on him a little–to make him more like us. I’ve failed. I even seem to have sublimated the guy.
I may not be done with him, though. How many more sonnets do I need in order to call this a cycle?
My Psyche stands beyond the sickly reach
Of song despite her lover’s keen defeat.
And lessons will a Cupid’s mother teach
When son’s most bitter pain converts to sweet.
How brutal that Love’s way should separate
A lover from his Soul in faithful aim;
And glorious, too, that loss’s dour state
Corrupts no pure heart in its worldly shame.
As crystals take the hue of lights nearby,
As curtains darken rooms from glare without,
As deepest truth is seen without the eye,
As every hope claims life in souls devout,
So Cupid draws his blessing when he’s cursed,
And empty vessels slake the bitter thirst.