Ye knoweth mind stained bitterness, to ye it matters not.
Thou hast cheapened the dictionary of excuses, yea no longer can ye follow thine own plot.
So how say’s ye with sorry excuse this time?
Didst thou suffer amnesia along your route?
Ah ah, don’t insult thine intelligence; giveth to me that revered, for thou hast tried not to bewray those sordid secrets come.
Ye hath evidence, ye pocketed sin the other day; when work hadst ended and exhaustion tired sleep in your way.
Thus lies materialised I read, how much to you I never meant.
From within the channels of post and mail, your other lover sent.
So why my head I bow and cry; art thou the last to know that thine beloved detests me so.
Love hast no secrets, secrets out. Betwixt the air that binds you to me and yet no more.
In open scene shouldst thou protest, or give way to the freedom ye crave?
Who am I, a mere woman who will survive, than force a heart that once was mine.
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