Who has already decided,
On grounds that you can never know,
That you have nothing to offer?
Like the maiden on the Grecian urn,
She will never come to you.
Her heart will never beat with yours,
And her lips will never pucker for you.
She will never sit at your feet
For she sees no semblance of a king
In her meagre picture of you -
Scrawled jagged across an ugly canvass.
Memories of you will never wander
Through dreams that stir her blistered lust.
In time she will not even recall
That you bid for her with nothing.
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