You held mine eyes as thunderclaps.
Deafening.
Blinding.
Hearing only of the love, you let me see.

In whispers of technicolour.
Rainbows mount the skyward stairs.
While walking in February snows.
Saw powder puffs of icicles, brush softly on your nose.
They were playing games with you, as once, thou didst with me.
As cold inside you made me feel, believed the words you said were real.
You were a fantasy, existing within a fantasy.
A fable, where the cards you offered,
lain not upon an honest table.
For the land in which the good man dwells is filled with hornets, straight from hell.
Left dangled on a silken rope, whereupon I find no hope.
Love is for only the wittiest jesters.
In my empty heart, your lowly memory slowly festers.
(c)LIVVI