Sonnet: The Knave

[torquill]

I can't usually write sonnets. Perhaps it's because I just pulled an all-nighter.

A knave thou paints thyself, to hide from those
Who carry brushes of compliments and praise,
With ease thou play'st the rogue no virtue knows,
In quiet thou nurse the weak till spirits raise.
I would thou were a cruel and heartless scoundrel
Who's careless of the pain thou leav'st behind,
I would thou were a base and common wastrel
A thief in truth, a liar, of no good kind.
But this, thy deepest flaw: the hand that brushes
The spearpoint lodged within my breast, believes
That thou canst ease the blade thou sharpened, touches
And drives it deep past hope of all relief.
My heart's been pierced for days beyond my reckon
Yet still I come if ever that hand beckons.