Dearest, for you I would only commit myself unto not a soul.
Why, you say, would I do that?
Simple, I am cruel.
Yet, not so much I would dare break your heart, for you see that is my goal.
I would love nothing more than to **** you sardonically with unsaid words, as I tip my hat.
Cynicism has never been so sweet while it plays with sarcasm, a duel.
Ah, you say my dear; you do not like my game?
What shall I do when you blatantly refuse to play?
It is such an intriguing, miraculous, subtle shame.
The wind it whispers, through you, sweet nothings, a cliché.
I do not understand why you, my love, must be so coarse.
Perhaps, it is a twisted and torn revenge for a wonderful inferno.
Yet, what have I done to deserve you to take me by force?
Passion, it has never before been so thorough.
If perchance you shall ever come to anything unsaid…
I shall not be in this ever present bed.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
More so now than not
I glance forward and back.
Not at the sequential morning.
Back to you and I and he
Mourning our cynical place,
He is not known to you, or to I.
Place torn away with regret, but never remorse.
I do not sleep for fear alone.
A lonely, lovely intrigued chamber of Death.
Alone in our chamber of lost things and letters
Death, it seems, will take me broken and shattered.
Letters catch my eye, not on paper but on the floor,
Shattered among the wine glasses.
Floors not stepped on, to an emptiness-and
Glasses cannot help my weary eyes from tearing.
And to the slamming of doors and screams!
Tearing of a love long past alive.
(Screams), and then, silence eerily drunk
Alive, but only just, I tip this wonderful wine.
Drunk, I come to a realization, much to my surprise…
Wine does not bottle up that which does not fit.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC