gathering dust and whispering tense;
gift wrapped in soft susurrate,
solemnly sailing in coincidence.
And the whiskey spills the floor,
soiling film and stifling foment;
belittling each need to sullen,
rubbing wrong that argument.
And the ardor stocks my thoughts,
your lips meanwhile lock patience;
wrecking thin and wearing faint,
the idea of an ideal conversation.
But all these whims which are create,
innate, slain within desolate sections;
a woebegone chin that smiled displeased,
and eyes swimming red with intention.
No comments:
Post a Comment