QUATORZAIN 41

In the garden of freshly pierced hearts,
I’m doing time with a shadow of you,
thorn quivers in your hand crimson blood-stained;
and I stare hollow-eyed all bright with
soft admiration and honeyed words begging
you to forgive my tenderness in light
of your crystal ice delicate touch. You
pirouette in time to music I’m deaf to,
and I misstep cloven-hoofed to your tune,
bells ringing, clanging, dissonant and shrill
over your demands of loyalty,
forking from your unfaithful tongue, eyes green
with lies and adulteries of omission
cruel as inattention turned my way.

David M Pitchford