Cyclic Machine

 
In my veracity there
 was love.
Stupid naive girl still
believing in the fairy
 tale of the betrothed

With pride you added
me to your gathering
of pretty little things
While you avidly
imposed yourself 
on me like the burden
of a decaying ulcer
 in need of a purge 

A crust, you call love develops so deep it
 cracks and bleeds
my soul
Your blanket of sick
 comfort wraps me
as I sit and listen for
silence to exhale 

I am duped a cretin,
 left here to harden 
 in this hovel lined
with damask and 
plush fringe  

Your loving words an
 instrument of 
purposeful intent to
hold me in your loving
 arms  ever deepening
 my debility

What is left of this  pensive mute devoid
of slumber
You've pierced my
thoughts my dreams
bleed.
You kick aside the
clots that spill out onto
the  floor 

Into a silver vial you
 own pieces of me 
Our love has become tiresome
 I believe the cogs  are
worn on this cyclic
 machine