The Deed

Photo by Yuiizaa September on Unsplash

The virtue of sorrow is that you expect it at times to shake you up,

Arching us to the back, bending us pre-nup,

The silent whiskers of agony opening up,

A giant box of chocolates housing poison bottled up.

Screeching with imagined pain I glint at the card,

Digital hallecuniations are worse than storm,

Which blew up noah’s ark,

It’s the red wedding,

The imposter is the card,

I am the adjudged libel by the heart.

The finality of the happening lies in the publishing,

Like the eating in its pudding,

Sanctimonious at heart, sacrilege beating,

First for the glamour the other for the greeting.

Gentle beings are mortal souls,

Eccentricity makes ghouls,

This was love,

Until it went foul,

There are no rules to it,

I can weep, cry & yowl.