that fall like drunken bees from these ******* lip
shaped lies which know little but to speak;
buzz, flitter, fly, a sonorous chorus losing remorse
on each syllable that courses the Moors of my throat.
You know. The **** stained pulse so saccharine in a
heart beating if only by rote, forgetting the
ruts dug by nails scraping flesh til the
passion's long lost
all cinders, left on a ledge of rust.