The Devil's Heart

Moved from my old account: A pseudo-Shakespearian sonnet.

What doth I see in such a watery heart?

Blackest depths of this, a swamp, enlighten none.

But what stained question doth thy weeping impart?

Thy river Styx hosts demons, basking in sun.

To what deity cries thy own afflictions?

The better of my ideals shown naught for naught.

But knowest my own love better than fictions,

Written for proving I so loathe love hence sought.

To care for a one who cares naught for his self,

Who acts on a whim so cruelly conspired.

‘Twas I but a strange trophy on thy shelf?

Or, for a time, was my comp’ny desired?

A lesson from a lengthy tale shall I learn;

A heart for sinful wealth for one can ne’er burn.