By Stanley Collymore
Why should I now, of all occasions, start believing a solitary
word you're presently saying to me, when throughout the
entirety of this personal relationship that you and I have
been intimately engaged in you've never once, as I've
subsequently and most hurtfully found out, told me
the truth about anything; and your demonstrably
pathological lying: transparently endemic,
systematic in every respect and, furthermore,
very symptomatic of a serious character
failing on your part, I suspect, is to
say the very least on this rather
dispiriting and unpleasant
subject matter quite
embarrassing
for me?
For to be absolutely frank with you this odd behaviour of
yours wasn't something that I expected from someone
who I happened to fall deeply and passionately in
love with in the way I had done with you; and
who seemingly, both keenly and of her own
volition, optimistically assured me with
every pulsating emotion you could
possibly muster that the love I
unequivocally had and furthermore so positively
demonstrated for you was equally conjoined,
you winningly imparted to me, with your
own indefatigably strong, reciprocally
transmitted and solidly committed
love decisively possessed of a
longevity of its very own.
How on earth then I ask
myself couldn't I have
seen this coming or,
more to the point,
possibly have
gotten it all
so terribly
wrong?
© Stanley V. Collymore
30 December 2015.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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