DARK DEBONAIR CHEERS
Despite your proclivity for the dramatic,
your latest love saga limps barren of marrow.
Perhaps your heart’s unfruitful seeds need a harrow,
lest your spent nuance-fields shrivel up traumatic.
You brag and attest that cupid well tends your quest,
leaving raw, arrow-clad women piled as discards.
You secretly fear lust might pulse your heart to shards,
yet with temerity, you divest, then detest.
Wimpy-lame best names your decrepit armature.
You feel sure you have sent many down pain’s vortex.
You think yourself debonair and worldly complex,
but such false cheers just you hear in dark’s aperture.
written for contest that required the italicized words be used
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