she folds her man back into
his neat lines
she folds her lies back into their
well defined places
she drew a bath and drown the fears
she drew blades and let loose with
a little light carnage
always good for the soul
always good for the complexion


her false faces placed neatly aside
in the small hours of night
tears would come
small and dainty
perfumed and practiced
the tears would mirror the tale
would mirror the woe that must have
been in her heroines heart
been in her heroines soul
the tears would flow picture perfect
captured in a small vessel
to be tasted later
to show her true felt sorrows

in the the dawns breaking mist
a face dimly perceived
a man she would have known
if she had not chosen this path
a man who should have saved her
from herself
and she runs up the battle flags
and the the guards fire
volley after volley
till the apparition is vanquished
till the man withdraws
she folds him neatly back into the box
from whence he came
and carefully locks it up again
lest he escape

i lay in the ruin of
a distant castle
on the scottish shore
warm in my bedroll
with another woman by my side
such a distant place
of darkness long forgotten
a place of such hates long left behind