Creative Commons image via Morguefile.com

Creative Commons image via Morguefile.com

Today’s poem is brought to you by my younger self who was already wildly disillusioned with men, and by Sir Thomas Wyatt.

Hunted

after Wyatt

You’re not the first
to try his hand in my pursuit.
Though one came close, outlasted
all the rest, even he begged off
at last, wearied and morose.
I wonder if he still thinks

of the sweetness he thought he saw,
that he counted on to forgive
his unforgivable flaw:
He believed, that fool,
that in a net
he could hold the wind.

Remember:
These eyes won’t sleep,
this heart will never miss a beat.
Because I know, one day,
the hunt of me will cease,
when the object you see now

fades away and gone.
Do not touch me.
My young body’s sun
will set with a sigh
and you will give chase
for a fairer fawn.

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