Poem: Sick; Or, The Anti-Love

Sometimes it is fun to play the villain.

Please enjoy my poem: Sick


How terrible to fall in love!
How like sickness it takes us!
First in the stomach it may grow
—a germinating weakness—
only to spread into our limbs,
a certain limpness lending,
and dread, as well taking the tongue;
no hope to find in that end.
Think you winged Eros I accuse?


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