(Three weeks straight of Elizabethan verse gets to a gal.)
My beaten heart no longer beats. The doctors leave for weekend plans; They say my heart will go no more As others go. No other glance From other men will move it forth From whence it came. No other song Will lend it measured meters and No other scale will test its worth As you had done with balanced arms. You tilted left, a foul tilt Which sentenced me to this foul state – Though once you promised me no harm. But listen! Your ear on my chest Might wake the sound of beating yet.
