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
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