A man cannot love a house

Photo credit: Thaonguyen Nguyen
Interior

~ Leslie Baker

Love, to a man, is as a man to his home,
Grateful, warm and dry,
Initially, all praise, a dripping honeycomb.

Ever present, devoting love,
Slaving away to be sure he has ease,
But the effort is a privilege strove
Ignorant that his sweetness could cease.

Utter contentment, she has reached
Floating high; a sea of bliss.
Heaven-sent, her circumstance seemed
She would crumble to the earth if that was what he wished.

But a man cannot love a house.

Though, her walls may stand solid;
Her foundation built on love.
Though, she may weather all his storms,
He will forget her: a lost glove.
A blind fool in love,
she performs.

Her infallible persistence
he will take for granted:
His love’s faulty resistance
Ignores effort strove for him.
Snatching like a selfish child, the blooms of love he planted,
Reciprocate of love
is only coincidental whim;
Cupid laughs up above.

Forever she will slave,
Miserable in her plight,
Yet, unwilling to get away,
Tricked by his illusion of love,
Trapped in a delusion of light.