Your picture which I have in hand,
By itself could never stand;
For in dimensions, it does lack
The third and foremost of the pack.
It will not kiss me on command;
It cannot love me on demand;
And warmth, it never can imbue
To this poor soul who yearns for you.
Torture me no more, my sweet;
Pictures can’t such passions treat;
And if they burn as mine do now,
They need to be relieved somehow.
Thus, to this truth, I do adhere,
That only you, my Doctor dear,
In three dimensions, can you clear
This burning which is so severe.
So fly to me – do not delay;
I cannot wait another day;
And free me from the torments of
This raging three-dimensioned love.
Copyright © 1983 Ara John Movsesian