You raise, again, so phoenix like,
dead ashes, into flames.
But now I have your measure,
I won't play your cruel games.
I sit alone, and stare at walls,
My mind is filled with you,
But constancy, is not your style,
It's something you eschew.
You don't come home for days on end,
Then turn up, like a ghost.
Your head, you rest, upon my chest,
That's when love you most.
One day you have eyes of fire,
The next, you're cold as ice.
If you want to stay with me,
Then take this sound advice:
If you don't start to behave, I'm going to nail up that Cat Flap! !
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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Comments about this poem (Constant Inconstancy by Owain Glyn )
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