If my bare heart shall be your blank, fire on
In words the wounds that’ve wound you up, let loose
Your ammo’s shot (that being, your amors gone),
On target that beats, e’en till the fuse diffuse,
Shoot, here’s fair mark: that hearts hurt (on hearts) hound,
Look, fair game, when the hart’s in the clearing,
Beastly love pounces its own tail, sans sound (thought),
And death rattles mingle with the cheering,
Yet now hound’s a’fell, and like the flat roadkill,
Only the tread (of the walk) can tell,
How hunt was stalked with some skill (to standstill),
To hear dwell, our mad dame (Mademoiselle),
In this’ our only ever claim to fame,
That poetry’s a muse-ing o’er dead game,
Cheers to your Sunday morning…
JCL
Joseph Christian Lawrence 