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.