Sad To Sadden Poem by Mark Heathcote

No-matter-what's-offered I'm not inclined
Your sincerities dishwater darling
Just another flagrant lie from your mind
Sad to sadden, we aren't two of a kind
In your eyes, I only sense real danger.
Our futures no longer fused or entwined
I've-no-need of a callous, cold jailer
Who takes my soul, crying heartache consigned?
No matter how many tears on a cloud
Fade and take on a rainbow now serene
Your extremities, I no longer ploughed
Wished for; want the cut of the guillotine.
Sanguine tears no longer sweet, meet my sleep
Just nastiness of thunder, does I meet.