I watch a sylvan love scene
playing out under the trees
while jealousy tears at my heart,
his hand on that soft cheek
that so easily let mine go,
leaving it sunburnt, arid,
where poetry and passion
now only cold, hard words;
instead of hymneal magic,
distorted colours fill my eyes,
clinging to a forlorn hope;
before that acid
ate through my heart
and left me bitter,
piercing deeper than my soul
could withstand, it crushed
the music within me;
all unravels, as I watch her,
once my lover
sitting in his lap,
the blade heavy in my hand.


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