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If Pen is mightier than the sword
I am dead man walking
All of these letters,  bullets.
They rip through
Skin and crush bone
Words  sharp
gnaw
On
Ears
And eyes
Line after line
Cuts as paper a thousand times over
Every vowel and every consonant
Transformed into verse
Hammers
Flesh into submission
I will bleed
With each allusion
Would I have known
That in this was no healing balm
This poetry  is
Idolatry
And this is my suicide
Love was a lonely Syllable
Embedded hypothetically  in the
syntax of the
Story of
You and
Me

We quoted ,
I love you
And you , sic [loved me]
But perhaps
this was
Your hyperbole

Parenthesis
you
kept
[Me] in,
Frenetically,
in case
our verbs
became nouns
No verisimilitude
Imbedded logically

The allusion
Came alive
Described
So
speciously
All too clear
Once I chose
To study
The
history

No,
The Plot discovered,
This was
My own soliloquy
Dear Apostrophe ,
you and I,
We are not
Like simile

Truth be told,
I only resemble
Footnotes
In the ledger
Of your
Poetry
When language may be the only way to talk about being broken by someone

— The End —