Just another broken heart
flattened into words again,
Smearing across the pasty page
like black or blue-blotched blood again;
Just a touch of token art
with which to whip the world again;
Fearing a cross too crass to carry,
They faerie-framed their thoughts again:

Take time, took time, take time this time
To clash colors, a mix of chromas, aromas:
Molten gold, glinting, told tales this time
Of sins staining souls, a soma, a coma;
Forge phrases, four ages of metals to melt
Syllables, words, still able swords, vaunt,
Down and up high the hammer to **** her
Or him for whatever however we want

Looking for troth or truth, that thing;
Maybe by binding books we can find it.
It should never make sense, confusion is
Beauty apparently; form or frame has aged
Too sage, or something, just a splash of
Words on a page, repeat, repeat
Sounds lovely, drip, drop, break, love, hurt,
He said, she said, forever and for ever, then
Stop

Something simple, sight or sound,
Take a second, and rely
On real eyes
To realize
The real lies
We're all just