Poetry

(after Thomas Campion)
 
There are men with some charm, a inner hunger;
a kind of grace
is caught in the very way that they woo,
on every face
they do passion intimately feign,
but in disgrace
there is no kind of true love in their hearts,
their way is strewn with only broken parts.
 
Let not your ire on my complexion fall,
even mock me;
as I still cherish that which was great and good,
while you are free
from what we both had in sincerity
held as holy;
now that you call someone else as your own,
to me have cruel and most uncaring grown.
 
[Reference: “Blame Not My Cheeks” by Thomas Campion.]