Games

Such a pain it is to know not what feels— Once this ruined heart knew how to gravitate. But beauty’s malignant: it plots and it steals, So damned unconcerned to alienate. Don’t flatter yourself, don’t be inurbane! Don’t pretend there’s a scapegoat to slaughter. If my love was a sin, my presence a stain, Then my own soul must cause me to totter. Must I learn to adapt and live as you do— To dissipate all but selfish design? Should I feign to forget that life is untrue, When transitory loves pierce me like a tine? So capricious, the ones who know how to play. Perspicuous, yet they have nothing to say. 7 September 2016 Written for “Ten Word Challenge” Poetry Contest sponsored by John Hamilton