Love is an ambiguous thing, isn't it? We scorn it and curse it for all we're worth, And yet any who you ask would kill for it. Would I? Would I muffle her pretty ruby mouth with a cloth And silently kill her before covering it with a lie? Or perhaps spread ugly rumours of the dear, And smile prettily when they reach my ear. Why, you ask, I have such ugly thoughts? Because she has twisted my entire life in knots, And snatched away my pretty young man. Who this pretty young man? A god, surely by any with sense you ask, Covering his feelings with a conservative mask. Of course our love would be scorned and cursed, But is that not the way love is viewed? Now if the dabo bitch could go away, I would gladly have with him my way.

Wistful Musing

Across the Promenade I see them both, Hand in hand, smiling and talking. Who you ask it is I spy? Funny thing I should say that, For it is the little girl and the insidious spy I spy. You lie! You must think. No. A little girl indeed, walking with the spy. And what I do all day is sit and watch. Plotting what? Revenge? Retaliation? For what? We have shared lunch and company and lies, Traded laughter and sorrow and lies, Ordeal and lies. Lies, lies, and more lies. So perhaps the reason I sit here, alone Pondering, musing, doing nothing, Perhaps it is because I am convinced, That what my eyes spy is a lie.

The End