when words spill like tears onto a page,
ink stains run and ruin the exchange,
of well, expression and emotion,
instead it is all awash in the ocean,

too much,
held inside,
for too long,
that when
it starts to
break out,
after breaking
the heart,

there is a broken heart to heal,
there are no kings horses or kings men,
for the pauper is not worthy of,
to have repair of the heart,
that was halved and halved,
then diced roughly,
and scattered on the dusty
wind
         ... wind that wails,
that it cannot mend the heart,
         ... wind that sails,
and cannot carry the parts to a place to mend,
so the
pauper
can once
again,
run to
his beauty,
though
she sees
him not,
stand beside
her in the
square, knowing
that she is not even aware,
that he would
not let one hair fall to harm,

but
then the master
at arms
saw his look
and took
his sword and chased
he, the pauper
to embarrassment
but
not of riches,
cut loose his
britches,
with one flick
of his sword tip,
pauper tripped,
and it stung, landed
in the fresh, fresh dung.

He ran away
and is running still,
with out any of his
heart parts,
the hardest part,
was knowing,
she saw his holey
undergarments
showing all, to be
the first and
last thing
she saw of him,
as he ran very f***t.