An Inconstant Thing

I am not an inconstant thing,
for you, my heart’s song still rings,
but it stings, wrung and warbled round the road,
for you love another better than me and yet you will say no.

You give me heartache on the scale of star-crossed,
without loss of life, but worse,
for now affection gathers moss and
I turn and toss with the loss of delight,
the days turned hard into night.
a plight pillaging each waking, aching thought:
what hath thou wrought? Wrangled me to dangle,
my own soul’s been caught.

And now you think me so inconstant,
because I tried to stem the ache and failed.
But still I hope you’re hale,
wish that I could stop the stalemate that sees us at each other railed.

Female, fair to fancy me bedight,
but I flung fast Fortune and turned its grace to shyte,
fought the flames that had fanned in the night’s trembling,
held close to me tight on my birthday, dissembling,
yes, that present was just right.

But now the tense is reflective,
love has been cooled and suspended,
and I dearly wish to see this mended,
but then the hurt would be for naught,
and in the end, the sting shall still be caught.

To you I brought:

Happiness. Obstinance.  Dominance. Providence.
Heartache. Turmoil. Confusion in its hardest sense.
I saw your joyousness spent in sly seductions in shady corners.
I brought you to your moral’s borders in the highest order.

And I’m sorry.

Not because I didn’t mean it,
not to try to be deceiving,
best believe it, I love you, though that shall see no apology either,
and not because I feel lost now, without you, in the ether.

I’m sorry that you felt a moment of regret,
sorry for the pain in your chest that has been your debt
for loving a callow, craven fool like me,
now that I am gone, perhaps you’ll have a chance at being happy.


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