By: Linda M Crate

your heart has no
sense of direction
even if you are logical,
and maybe that’s
your problem
because there’s nothing
logical about love
as rewarding as it is;
but i wouldn’t
expect a self-proclaimed knave
to know anything
more than
lust—
dying leaves have more passion
in their veins than you
do,
and i wonder sometimes
if she truly
completes you the way you said;
i doubt it
you’re just an insincere liar
untrue and incapable
of being anything
more than a pure narcissist
egotistical
to the bottom of your
rotten core—
i wish i didn’t remember,
and it didn’t
bother me so much but i find
it hard to forgive myself
for you;
i let you take my flowers
compromised my values
made you a god
just so you could prove me wrong
and show me that
you were less
than even a man—
you’re just another
child of winter
with icy sharp eyes and
intentions impure,
and i’m glad that no longer
do i sing songs
for you;
even ravens have their pride
and the truth is,
wolf,
you never even deserved
any part of the
psalms
i gave you;
choke on your hubris
and learn some
humility—
i must square my shoulders
walk tall as trees,
and fly into every inky
golden dawn
because tomorrow brings
a better promise
than your name.