On Being Thrown Over
Would your love for me increase
were I to die
or would my barely-mourned decease
erase me from your memory?
Would your febrile eyes
seek out a physical response, the fuel
to weave a quilt of lies
made posthumously cruel?
Was I no more than ornament,
a transient nod to Spring,
the blush of one short season’s mild content
fit now for only fickle disregarding?
Was there nothing I could ever be
then,
now,
or evermore to thee?
Ian Gouge - Writer 