Broken Instrument

What happens to this poetry embroidered within the walls of my heart, When the joy of my words are shattered underneath your feet, Can the torture of your empty moon paint a slithering promise, Far across into my deep colorless dreamscape of dahlias, Your dry eyed apologies took me to a mortal with no reflection, As you hide behind your short lived excuses and homed cruel intentions, Like a fool I was to believe that a rose could bloom in the peeks of winter, While broken instruments illustrated a weak illusion, Shame, These knees you held with such tender affection, Poured our tales into my abstract dreams, How you wandered into my eyes casting a waning crescent, Hoping the fragrant of a swine won’t clear my sight, I’ve stood by the hills, where it steeps down your hell, Perhaps the burdens you trust and love are the saint in your spells, Claiming clarity for a chaos that have you deeply compelled.