by Nick Gisburne
The quill is worn, and scratches as he writes
But every word spreads poison on the page
A fiction, from the bitterest of nights
Conceals the naked frenzy of his rage
His loathing for the cunning at her core
Which took him for a fool when he was rich
Compels him to regard her as a whore
Beyond the wall of winter is a witch
His love, eternal, never hooked her heart
But capital and wealth were well received
How smooth the snow which keeps their lives apart
How cold the crime with which he was deceived
“Return, my love. New fortune sets us free.”
He wonders what her dying words will be
