After Shakespeare’s Sonnet XX

A murmured heart with nature’s slow hand beating,
have I, dear master-monster of my passion;
No woman’s feeble heart, but not revealing
itself to you, afraid of your rejection.
I fear no scythe that swiftly cuts all deeds down
that mocks bold love, loud fame, and futile wealth
than death of words I hope in heart you might own
the syllables I cherish, prayed in stealth.
Your eye is false, blue-bright, my own Narcissus;
Your words dissemble even as they call;
Your heart beats not for me nor other mistress;
Your empty heart can’t know love’s blood at all.
You’ll be my heart, a numb, reflexive pleasure.
to beat, half-heart, and never know full flexure.


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