The Object of Desire

I stagger, dazed at the beauty I behold,
Rapt, in that beauty of which I've only heard,
My heart throbs in leashless desire,
As my feet move, unhighed, towards her,

She holds something that draws me close,
An object that pulls me into a pit bottomless,
It's something unique, that which she holds,
And it makes her what she is, to my eyes,

And I wonder, as I'm pulled closer,
If I've fallen for it or for her,
Do I see her for all she is,
Or am I blind to all but this?

Am I limiting all that she is, to a small possession,
Be it her beauty, her body, or that great profession?
Should I see her as that dark form she sees when she pictures herself?
Or as even more, the parts even she doesn't recognise, of her self?

And then, as I come close, I see,clear,
That none can see another, no matter how near,
I chose to stick to what she says of her,
And wait, by her lips, conscious of what she utters,

I swear to learn from words and not,
And learn of her, the way to be known she sought,
After all, a person sees only a part of even their self,
And in love, I ought to love what I liked and not,

And as I wonder, holding my gaze,
My thoughts shining through the darkness of my daze,
I see, clear, I'd put myself in her hands,
Be they arms of care or evil clutches,

But alas, she sees not me, nor my soul,
For she's lost, in the pursuit of another,
I watch, hurt, as she staggers like me,
Struggling to look and be the best she can be,

And then, when she courts, she offers him her soul,
And the object I sought stands beside others baring its all,
She bears him her soul, awaiting his call,
Her arms outstretched, seeking to love his all,

And then I see, now vivid and clear,
That she's no angel, but not evil either,
That we're both toys of a soulless desire,
Dancing to the tunes of the music of nature.