I remember buying cards to inscribe with little rhymes,
A romantic little gesture towards my lady love.
I don’t do that anymore, I now live in different times,
For I know love is not a gift from up above.
Once I could see the world anew through my lover’s eyes,
The old became new again and shined.
Now the only “new” I see are her deceptions and lies
Constructed from her selfishness of mind.
Romance was a reality with substance of its own,
A ladder that raised souls up so high.
With Romance I could float, not sink like a stone
After she’s been with some other guy.
But Romance has a shelf life counted in her trysts,
The times she lay beneath different sheets.
Will I play her game, search out what I have missed
Or once more ignore her amorous feats?
I have desire for vengeance that requires acts rude
That only another woman can provide.
But I would hold self-loathing in an act so lewd
Knowing that for pleasure I have lied.
A lie that begins with myself.