Self Writing
I’ll need some time to right myself, to think.
You asked for verses, specially for you.
I bought this special pen, this hand-made ink.
Your conduct didn’t give the slightest clue
that you were insincere – but insincere’s
too weak a word, for all the harm you’ve done.
I’ve saved these creamy pages now for years,
against the day that they’d be written on.
It’s leather-bound, and silky to the touch.
I love its paper, dignified and plain.
To clasp it shut, a dainty metal clutch
engages with a tiny golden chain.
So now it’s closed to you. And, like myself,
it must go back to sitting on the shelf.
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