A letter of false confession


My heart feels like moldy brisket
broken up like a biscuit.
I would take care and fix it
but the pieces flushed away.

I can’t believe a crumpet
would dare call me a strumpet.
Your condescension like a trumpet.
That withers my wick away.

No more to tinkle merry
Over cheeks that burn like cherry
Your echo is so very
You have forgotten how to love me.

 

Note from the poet:

This poem is an attempt at a novel idea. Writing the feeling of a novel intrigue, in the shortness of a poem. Hope you like it!

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