My sweet,
Why do you tremble so
Whenever I approach
And bitter eyes of hollow
In my direction turn?
Why is your tongue so stern
And whence is hid your play?
If only such another
Could weave its malign blood
Into my own again,
Its call I would obey.
Forgive my truant heart
Its skipping beat, and know
That since your favour’s loss
This madness is my gift:
A sightless horror born
Of sugared spleen, and cast
Into a writer’s pen…
Adrift.
*
vic briggs 