My eyes, which are knowing, tired and sad,
That your tongue flickers these days in swift lies.
My tongue has to still its instinctive tread,

To acquit you of what we both realise,
Is nothing more than the dying rattle,
Of already perishing, poisoned ties.

No, let us both quit this feckless battle,
Of careless whims and selfless fantasies.
Mend our lives, our individual mettle,

And perhaps, taste the old intensity
Not as one, but with some newer fancy.