POSTED 05/02/2018 13:04
There she was moments before
she flew away from the snare
in your arms a songless owl.
Strewn pictures on the floor, half-hearted
sketches of her face, her forgotten
velvet shawl with a cheap cologne that is priceless to your soul
desperately in need of fragrance, her ghosts
hovering to kiss your heart
with vengeful fangs.
where the guitar can not play itself,
pieces come together to a picture
with the caption 'Paradise Lost.'
Night is the butler
attending you with horns of tears
from the winepress of memories.
She walked out a ruined city from
her doting watchtowers when you cheated,
looted the treasuries of her maiden glory,
broke down her walls with no mourner
to tell of the burnt offerings of her heart
on your altar of indifference in your temples of lies.
She leapt into the arms of "You will return to me. No man can love you like I do."
You watched her dare the paths forbidden
uprooting rusted sign posts of lies.
She never returned like you dreamt.
Your charm failed.
You crashed the glass of aphrodisiac against the wall.
Sick of wishing on wishing stars
you trace where the stars fall
to fetch one into your hat like a gloworm.
There you found her
an owl that used to be the mocking bird of your
of half-baked sonnets on love.
She sings stars from their constellation
with her muse;
a man that knows not the books
but is master of the art...her heart.
She sings you a threnody
with borrowed lyric of your wounding cusses.
Here is where she finds love
as she sings the songs of the free
on a shattered cage
outside your arms.
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