Martin McLean

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Best Poem of Martin McLean

Update Of Sonnet 129

The foul destroyer of love is deceit.
The lies, the hides, the smiles that break the trust
All founded on that despicable conceit
That treachery is but natrual lust.
So easy for a man to be taken
By eyes, by mouth and by body posture,
No thought of love let desire be shaken
For libido of itself is so sure.
No calculation of the hurt is made
Only those rash moments of want do count
When he from sure constancy has strayed
And fails the fatal allure to surmount.
Every man knows what he is risking
Yet few can resist the thrill of taking.

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