Try as he might, she plays him still...
The truth, evident. Denied with a will.
The good men are few, yet he is one.
And he worshiped her as some do the sun.
Dead as a stone, she toys his heart.
He refuses to see her tear him apart.
His passion loud as roaring thunder.
For him I hope they get torn asunder.
A coterie of men, for her, behave.
God forbid she make him a slave.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Try as he might, she plays him still...
The truth, evident. Denied with a will.
The good men are few, yet he is one.
And he worshiped her as some do the sun.
Dead as a stone, she toys his heart.
He refuses to see her tear him apart.
His passion loud as roaring thunder.
For him I hope they get torn asunder.
A coterie of men, for her, behave.
God forbid she make him a slave.
I know this isn't too profound but I wrote it to make my friend think a little bit about a girl who played his heart strings.
Request permission to use this poem