Wednesday 18 January 2017


He marches on, love unrequited,
In the hope of friendship still excited,
A meet, a hug, a night of passion,
Everything to serve raw emotion.
Could it be just an agenda,
Exploited now and put asunder,
Of such a ploy to act with cunning,
A desire to meet a wanting.
With open hand, he sows liberally,
In lives he knows almost too clearly,
They stop to chat so freely,
For they were ever so friendly.
A moment soon at the doorstep,
A hand was grabbed as if to schlepp,
With words and weight to push,
Relieved of all in an ambush.
The dawn did break for one to think,
This all happened in a blink,
A sadness scrawls upon the face,
Not a way to want to embrace.
Many a time was too frivolous,
Yet a pleasure to be that generous,
To some who could rightly scoff,
At the tale of being taken advantage of.
For in what he writes he chides,
For if this thing abides,
Of whom much more is desired,
A lot better is expected.

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