Perhaps I'd ease up and place a
hand across, evince and unpack.
Then a sullen evening's weight falls,
embracing my uncivil knack.
I'll strike the ruler off, with
potential armor thats pure, vestal.
Charades become miserly, anonymous
smiling on their steadfast pedestal.
Uneasily slow, knock the door and I
shall not read you in pretense.
For now the knives are drawn out
and a dark room becomes tense.
So hit, dab, dagger, and quit
the chape in time, sings beneath
the scabbard tilts in discussion
she swims the bloodied sheets.
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