She was a woman.
He was a poet.
He wrote to her words only a poet can.
And so made of her his pet.

It came to be the woman he wrote of
moved to the rhythm she heard
and, so, fell deeply in love
with the poet and his word.

But while she was falling in love
he was writing poetry
through her, to his God above.
The price of spirituality.

She was the woman.
He was the poet.
And the heart lying broken
is not his own.