UnPoetia:The Stain

Poetry for people who hate poetry

Oh, never say that I was short of sound,

Though absence seemed no flame to qualify.

As easly might It from myself rebound

As from myself which in thy face doth fly.

That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

Like him that travels It returned again,

Just in time, not with the perfume exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never relieve though in my pressure reigned

All frailties that besiege all kinds of strange,

That it could so preposterously be stained

To leave for nothing all thy sum of mess;

For nothing this wide universe I call

Save thou, my smell, in it my fart my all