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