You stroked your
Name from off my page
Of desires,
Closed the book on
Life together.
Reading me chapter and verse
Of your dismal diary
Recounting all my mistakes,
No less than a book of
Hours spent in regret.
No guilt feel I who, once illumed,
Still fail to see the choice of me
Could any lifelong purpose serve.
No. No guilt can rise when
Janus-faced you rose from'st
Our nuptial bed, dropping not
A clue as to the state of
Your most secret heart.
Somewhat strange. I thought
Makeup was used
To but highlight beauty.
Your masquerade, I sense
Owes much to the morticians art.
To colour, mold, fill in and shape
A'fore the corpse does lie in state.
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