The Cockney Wife

Nobody I know – honestly…

Always the same strife
like a knife through butter.
That cut, her tongue makes,
in my often lacerate soul.

My God,it’s not pain.
It’s the sameness.
Things best left unsaid;
opting for harmony instead.

And yet I respond in kind,
mindful of her brittle values.
I’ll use any subterfuge
to outmanoeuvre spite.

Night brings a well-worn armistice.
The sorry statement, made up.
Descending apathy, slipping on lip service
Cold comfort in a warm embrace.

© franciman 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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You at your poetic best, well worth all the plaudits.

 <span title="Experienced Commenter" style="font-size : small; color: orange;">**</span><p>

Nice subtle and occasional rhyming.

Perhaps needs the word “trouble” in there somewhere as well?…

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