Untitled - I Hate Using the Word Love
I've pondered on these things,
Gasped over these things, many scores, a plentiful year ago.
I expected a calmer touch, the absence of tempers ascending,
the road less sinful.
These things are retrospect, I was a false dreamer on.
From the day I fell into this misery, she never played mercy.
I've never met a more tempting urge to ache than from the
scent of her presence.
Did she sleep upon the pit of lucifers knee?
Why so subtle? She would question when I held her,
Starring doomsday in its vibrant, cultivating pupils.
Company from yesterday caught wind of my SOS.
They sent every safe page they graduated from,
And ordered my return.
But I knew of no backspaces I wanted to entertain
again. It began to settle on me, the ease of she was
a myth, until I wrote tomorrow with no gasp, no pause;
the kiss of risk never left alone again.
Since I've learned better, she tends to play smoother,
smile deeper, deeper than this 30-year-old metaphor
I'm still solving.
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