My Love
My love I hung
on a line,
out to dry.
To the bitter winds
of jealousy.
To the calm winds
of an embrace.
Shrivelled by the hot, scirocco
winds of passion.
Lava souls melting.
Lusted and lusting.
Wanted and wanting.
My love I hung
on a line,
in fear of
the black, polluted
dust of decay.
Of love no more
which no wind will stir.
My Words, My World 
Scirocco? What does that mean?
a hot, dry wind that blows up to the Med from Africa.
Ah. Cool word, then!