You're hard and unforgiving, like concrete,
cold, and expanding with the rising heat;
you scare the hell out of me and others,
and nearly everyone you've chanced to meet.
I have met the pavement and it's you!
unyielding, unpliable and too damn hard;
yet your surface looks unblemished,
polished, without wrinkles and unmarred.
Like the cover of a book, you glow,
in the pages, the real you comes alive;
and what was love is now destroyed,
by your bitterness and haughty pride.
Your the devil in disguise I do declare,
you profess to be a wife, but you are not;
Lucifer can appear as an angel of light,
but I can see the evidence of your rot.
Your the kind that can't forgive at all,
and I am sick of playing your cruel game;
I leave you to your conception of a life,
and the grand illusion of your every shame.
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Comments about this poem (False Cover by david lessard )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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