Vindication.

You wouldn't admit to having changed,
havin' dejunked, your cluttered mind again.
But I became to offend, less to assume,
whilst every line played a different tune.

You slept o'er this monologue in vanishing sand,
rather than putting forth, your's trembling hand.
And such is deemed fine for we are alone except
that conversation wanes in emotional depth.

Whoever felt talk could cloy, was much wrong,
as what vanity denied was needed all along.
For blemish fed the parched earth, it did hurt,
'tis rusting literature that is since untouched.

Imperfectly

Pensive, equally dispensed with,
off topic, she's easily emotive.
For her thinking makes love hectic,
able in tune, but difficult, livid.

On her own, she doesn't feel alone,
she gets sedate and love's unknown.
For in meddle, its her humbling echoes,
a delicate step with her frozen toes.

She's unwilling inasmuch as my hesitance,
for neither knows where to begin;
and alarmed, we take it from the top
cold marrow, and the brief bus stop.

Is Equal To.

A harbour of intense nudge
This touch means grudge
Palpable to thought
In this life we are caught

The river ceases to flow
In all its stagnation, it churns underneath
Restless, idle on the surface
It churns poison beneath

Insistence making lethargic
Imagination runs the ruin awash
Au bade in augur, irresistible craze
I won't play this song again.

Variety.

Her stunning shrill in muted anger,
and clamor in the ways it work;,
weather brings with it withdrawal,
whilst she sits alone and sulks.

For I cannot do much, other than,
sit and hear those songs you list;
making gestures at the mirror,
and wishing desire breaks with it.

In time, trouble locates despair,
ushers in a tray full with defeat;
while you pull away at your dress,
and unspeaking, you go to sleep.

'morrow, you can spell your silence
and in monologue, crack and dwell;
For I'll break affection in consequence
of endearment that I could never sell.

Shellac.

Sudden trickle, her whimsical drizzle;
with morning dew, it dampens little.
'Least the spirit isn't frigid; which harms,
now it thaws but its a smile that disarms.
In deliquesce, she swiftly swivels and swerves,
such is the inaction that it has no verve;
as words are best confined to sedate love,
for in sentences, they only further disturb.
The stupor is momentary; for in insensibility,
sleeps her quiet concern for slight sympathy;
'cause succinct rationale at times, can assist;
as when dew evaporates, it leaves behind mist.

Whilom.

Your feet fend off the unassuming parget,
and the wall seem'd to be sane again.
And I slept by a bouquet, so full,
of flowers that tast'd innocence.
The feet now were at distance from me,
with the sober, dark rum an inch away.
while you still made no more attempt,
to make happenings seem whole again.
But sometimes, things are unkind, like,
in mellow, gloom, sand, and sunshine.
For they further embrace life the way
its only done for hope we both did pine.
And in these finally tense seconds,
your terse throat regains style while,
the feet adjust, garrote rum to the floor
and only leave unparched, the marble tiles.

Downstairs.

Prose, when unborn, stiffens life;
and it quietly unfolds in hindsight.
For in motion, this ocean thats us;
parallel lives, an unbiased stimulus.
As its not spoken to only make sense;
haphazard and in impatient eloquence;
These, in retrospect, spell veneer,
and help remember as if you were still near.
For with these sentences, die all signs,
you, me, and all these stillborn lines.