There's a typewrite on the desk,
What's on the paper makes no sense,
Random pleas for deliverance.

He's stricken,
Afraid,
Of all the webs that he has made.

Of love he wrote,
Of lust he read,
Small words on pages,
Larger words when said.

Soft hearts in the palm,
Of a man who wants more,
Weaves the beauty of want,
Such delicate lore.

Plays to the ear of woman,
That every caught his eye,
That then want his heart,
But find then one lie.

There is naught to be found,
Where once love did live,
A shadow of the life,
He once had to give,
But no longer,
No more,
Only lies and webs,
Delicate lore.