Captain Cur (England)
Feedbag of Her Guile
Can it not be as then I prayed it was
all hope I held dissolving from my view;
whatever I felt yet knew not the cause,
what privilege it was and is to love you.
Fortune has played me a suffering fool
to think the thoughts I thought in your embrace.
You washed away and cleansed me of my flaws
forged my old heart inflamed it young and new
tempered on the anvils indifferent face
words of love cry out empty of all grace.
You should have said you loved him more than I,
gossips cheap that chirps loosely like a bird,
I cried the tears of loss that never dry
stunned by truth the lone casualty of words.
Perhaps from your kiss I should have inferred
that your heart was not meant to meld with mine.
When I kissed you what glistened in your eye;
staid echoes from my own heart weakly heard,
love solely manufactured in my mind
perpetuating falsehoods by design?
Unabashedly loyal as a stud
love casually walks through the starters gate,
throws off the reins bucks’ wild in the mud
tossing all who dare mount her in distaste.
Unwise I was, I bit down on the bait,
cold hearts can be broken by a smile,
neighing hoofs raising portents in the blood
trampled under the beauty of her gait
caught on lies and dragged for endless miles
nourished by the feedbag of her guile.
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