Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.

You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.

But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.

This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!

Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...

Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.

With every letter you wrote me,
I knew you'd be mine forever.
I thought you were mine forever.
You built me a whole new world,
Villages and castles,
Forests and oceans,
From just your paragraphs.
As I read them again,
I search for the time that you were mine,
I search for your love,
For the proof that you belonged to me.
The world seemed to burn down around me,
our world crumbling with our love.
Do you know what my mother said?
You're obsessed with your legacy,
paranoid with how they deceive you.
Now, you have forfeited the place in our bed,
The place in my heart,
The place in our love.