26th April 2014

Sonnet 136

If my soul checks me that you come too near,

Years of your probing, performancing will -

A will my pizzled* soul admitted there

Whilst subsuming it's own self to fulfil

Your will: rude crude mechanics of our love,

At first a tandem, lately built for one,

What do maritals' bare stats of will prove

When change of mind set registers a "none"?

Then in statistics let me pass untold

With fantasies of celebs you could be,

For nothing hold me , put my will on hold,

Me's dead to me, a some-time wife to thee.

    I changed my name for thee and love that still,

    Bu paid with my lusty maidenhood's will.  

*Word invented by AOL strategist - conglomeration of pissed-off and puzzled.