You only loved me for what I could give

and gave I did till you did drink me dry.

I thought my love your cruelty could outlive

and though bonsaied, my tenderness survive.

Young limbs can bear the warping of taut wire,

soft buds will burgeon on a twisted stem

but topiary torture kills desire -

you cannot grow love with that stratagem.

I tried to be your Galatea bride,

the virgin whom you thought to carve from bone,

you hewed and shaped and sculpted as you strived

to make a Stepford statue of your own

and when mallet and chisel were set down,

you found but rubble heaped upon the ground.