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.