A Hope forlorn
Your pressed lips are of kind truth not flavoured,
for tasteless are the spurious kisses of false desire
given in supposed moments of passion savoured,
mere polished Acts from which you hastily retire.
The wanton eyes you make are not from lust born
but of the painted lover’s mask you always wear,
to render all heart felt feelings into hope forlorn,
a romance masquerade, a child like game of dare.