A Lost Battle

When thinking of my pain I see her face;

the face to break my heart.

Her sharp disdain, more vicious than a mace,

makes my pride smart.

I see that she is fey,

And understand

the flaws within her play

and love her still;

I prowl about the brambles of her thrill

a wretched man.

She has destroyed my heart,

Or she has let me play my part

In its demise,

and she will never know what she has done;

to show her the poor prize

that she has won

would be mere bitterness.

I love this one for her felicity,

and want no witness to my misery.


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