Bicker.

November waves sheet this wind
cold carpets of stumbling feet
whilst a piquant, faltering moon
renders loneliness obsolete.
measures can't be left ashore
with borrowed counts of three
lightning strikes only once
subtle shadows swim beneath.
are i to succumb in bliss
or statue sufficient blithe tonight?
for this fucking moor be much drunken
pale comparison to befallen blithe.
harboring a guess could lead awash
bleeding lips of greed
a misjudged whim assured of
your mildew silent teeth
grudging - coerced and stowed by
hands smoldering in retreat.

Urge.

How tempted was she

then it was different.

An occasional choke 'for wither

efferent, abatement.

That winter

wasn't any less enticed

perhaps sliced through

an irrationality in her eyes,

conducting a glance,

riddled

in woebegone moonlight.

Its those weekends,

rainbow'd grim,

carving attempts

in dismay

whilst we wasted 'way;

overwhelmed in gin

and unworn attire,

an ire token, taking

unspoken words

in a fake empire.

Now I'm frayed

shuffling too,

a virescent

asserting upon

dusted drawers

spray painted

in November chill,

though its not until

its left me coveting,

would she be tempted still?

Middle.

She was compassed, once

aimless and undefined,

culled with a dash

of gratitude

best viewed that spring.

Don't read in disdain

it'll simmer

that broken bone;

of how often

us yearned the moon

stirring anxious rum.

It provoked

uneasy whims

trimming an impression clean;

sunglassing yesterday

a pocket full of leaves.

In natter, precipitating,

forgiving your

sipping concerns;

now as inaudible

as a song in Autumn

penciled to our tune,

to a tune of ice cubes

smacking enraged glass;

each sentence stammering

each question unasked.

Trace.

Its a red ant

and an ivory sheet

itching to wrestle ashen needs;

wavering steps

listless feet

one in a million, beating retreat.

Im dictated

to indulge,

serving the helping thrice;

as a slice of tension

toughens the version

all of what is rust,

pales in comparison

I'm equally stressed

lest defeat be impulsive

as that insect

scoops a round,

I play to my strength

which when spelt correct

did once benefit.

A need to win,

lave 'gainst megrim

to squash distaste.

and therefore,

I'm willing,

to make amends as versed,

Whereas its within

celebration,

inaudible claps;

the ant slips away,

dethroned,

my hands are clasped

fingers still stoned.

Candles.

She's a drunken toast when
drunken most,
a satiable insect commingled in comatose,
who arose when wresting wicken wine
carpenting the wound,
clasping my eyes.
She knows to take
less than what gives,
setlling easily her forlorn smile,
charring, unharmed to wear.
Condesing to wood,
a humbling love affair,
might an eclair bake,
dipped in endless despair.

How things 'ave changed,
can we call it quits?
And then retire
to an earlier drill..
when you didn't
detest every morning's gin,
therewith proceeding,
elimating every pending need.
Your need to silence the beer,
mine to settle the receipts.
Not to say there was
any concern,
as back then, I for one
was comfortable with
your borrowed interest;
its only now that its wavering,
our stems soil with unrest.

Concoction.

Think I'll step a walk outside,
run 'round circles, sleep off our borrowed nights.
A slight respite sung to a tune unkind,
me inching progress, you changing your mind.

1:34 AM, marvelling if consequence is suspect?
I'd expect diffidence, lest it proceeds to alter the sheets.
And neither've you lost 'neath a Madras canopy,
nor 'ave I won, trespassing now reddened knees.

Good Evenin', do we call it quits already?
A battle half won, is a misnomer unsteady..
par the wary have discerned intention,
tired soldiers, shoulders craving attention.

Lets make mountains out of impulse, staple a dapper chin;
chewing notes, where whims have replaced vapid synonyms.
A summer stick of rhyme, she's uninclined,
were we to pine again, rain'd eclipse sunshine;
then shudder, for the dampened parts are stood,
should then we ever need to contain, we apparently would..