Fickle as they come
and go, without a parting word,
fly-tipping memories
into a pit of disregard
that rots in the sun,
and burns in the cold
like the icy, sharp and beatless heart
inhabiting my chest as a squatter,
stealing my blood (like the thief it is)
and filling my veins with wonder;
of a kind that’s built to ever-desire,
and priding itself in trickery.

But lest we forget the victims,
lying and lying to their new-found lovers…

and modesty deserts me.

Not wise, but privy to workings ever-deeper;
evermore, everless, and always deceiving.
Take care to examine the love you’re receiving.

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