St. Valentine, they say, was lost in love;
and on his heart’s desire was so affixed
that nothing here on earth or found above
could heal him from sly Cupid’s arrow prick.
St. Valentine, it seems, so loved himself
that selfishly he jumped in a canal
to punish she who put him on a shelf
and would forever be blamed for it all.
St. Valentine, such love is hardly true;
what good is love if it requires reward
or would avoid the perils that come due:
the fires of Hell, friends’ ridicule, the sword?
St. Valentine, I will not mourn your death,
nor worship your vain sacrificial leap;
I’d rather, with my fleeting, final breath
invest in something not so pale and cheap.
St. Valentine, my love inspires my life.
Unlike you, who would worship from the grave,
I sought a partner first, and then a wife,
to stand with and in unity be brave.
St. Valentine, retreat back to your tomb!
Your presence here is sickening to see,
inspiring only sad, insipid souls
who would by sheer luck find love’s secret key.
St. Valentine, would that you never lived
and by so doing, spoiled love for all time.
Your crime is one I just cannot forgive.
Your love is cruel, not merely more sublime.
14 Feb 2014
