Wilt.

She'd talk herself out, unassertive in sleep,

stammering across - a reverie in stampede,

to recede defeat in muted strains that ache,

only to drift away, leaving me awake.

Compos mentis, I'm found to acquaint restraint,

a tinge o' despair impairing already slippery paint;

the tone is moist, misty in sedate disquiet,

for 'neath the subdued pastel, dies our forgotten riot.

A parallel frame, which we dyed commotion,

stirring colloquy with withdrawn emotion.

But doesn't it hurt more when there is unrest?

As fracas slays only to conquer and arrest...

In smithereens, each caress makes sentence;

a broken bone, your smear on self confidence,

and with it, shallow imprudence makes you wince,

for when I need to overwhelm, its easier to convince...