Poem 2

Time taints the taste
To the point of impure.
Once a fine figure flirting
On the cusp of demure.
Never more settled than to
That of the settlement of more.
What was a lustrous lake
Seems to be a laden shore.
Most would haste to partake
In a seldom chance to explore.
Now cracks seep to the surface
Disclosing her former craved core.
The familiar covet has faded
So to has those who do adore.
Abandoned by her wittol,
Left to atone her debauched chore.


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