The seeds of a love bedeviled oft
by moments of truth that lie beneath
and see disaster from pillow soft
to the forging of serpent’s finger wreath.
Constriction of that gilded tail
form “should” from “could” and “might” to “must”.
Love’s force now bound is love’s travail
and bears the rotten fruit – distrust.
(submitted for Open Link Night at DversePoets..come join us, and being your little friend too! )