Dipped in crimson
The sky bruised blue at the edges
Just like on her jaws etched
Didn't complain, could she?
Air of ash and smoke masked
The aura of captivity dusk to dawn,
Using white lighters to see whats infront
Says he was a poet by heart
But recited with scars
With poetry scrambled behind
Cigarette packets
Recital was rather peculiar
She was his muse, and well used
Couldn't leave, could she?
A storm reckless if left both unbound
Like Bonnie and Clyde
Begs to not fall in love
You might be shot, or left stranded
At the eye of the storm
Leaving you wondering why storms are
Named after people