03.04.16

April 3, 2016 § Leave a comment

Realisation comes in tumults,

in rings and rivulets of lust mistaken to love

below your black-heeled toe.

 

Leave me for a rotten penny on the sidewalk

because I equate myself to Shakespeare’s great heroes

with honeyed poetry on their lips

and sharp tongues that make wounded women

dead with hearts on their sleeves

and open eyes staring to a heaven

that cannot accept such wanton lust.

 

And I am penning poetry to a stranger

in a dirty train station with the sound of rain

booming like thunder along the tracks,

as if the words unspoken, gaze unwanted

can somehow turn this lust to love.

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