Arrant.

The worn forlorn, looks have cried,

allure aside, it slips and hides.

Foment, chide, and let it ease,

she asks nothing, I stagger and freeze.

A broken bone, excitement will drip,

stumbling lips and lost courtship.

Running my fingers through her wrists,

I fold across, her fortress like fist,

she's submissive, for I won't resist;

now caving in, she insists we persist.

 

Agony, severely anoint with shades

and paints we should've dispel have fell,

within which she's as spoilt for choice, 

as vacant walls with venerable pastel.

So pipe down, drown someplace afar,

undo your coat, love steadily chars.

It scars, while its carcass mutely ruins,

wanes, ebbs, and scuttles as her skin,

which avers of how she wins, unrest's,

lest she suggests it bests my protest.

Skid and slide, as this melancholy shall

ribbon hope, in sotto-voce, make away,

into the delay which held us close,

wherein I yearn for you to stay.

Nerves! You submit into despair,

as scattered words make verbs rare;

and you remit in helplessness,

a forlorn pulchritude you wear...