myself, but the heat of love brought deceit in love now there isn't any
love life left.
A ring, a ring on your bones, encircling a digit, remarkably clinging to
me as it did your own, a ring so I was undone. No stones to fret your
fiendish intellect spent wrapped around a notion that held my potential
in esteem: you dreamt big. Hiding your ugliness under satin and perfume,
I learned never to throw pearls to a pig.
I sing of joyous reunion though, a miracle in crossing my past to grab a
future mine, seeking syllables and phrases to repay you in kind, in
time. Settle for silence and guesswork, the remnants of my furniture
and dress shirts, pieces of mail, old rags, to drape about the hovel of
a lovely nag; a lonely hag.
As we part lastly these words spring forth, bursting and splashing my
screen like water bombs and prolific colorful dreams all-in-one, knowing
a pitiful scheme left with other crippled fellows who knew you well but
vanished the same, I believe I played that same game. Yet you have not
figured it out, and in that I hold pity; in that there is shame.
I used to love what I thought was love like I needed love to love
myself, but the heat of love brought deceit in love now there isn't any
love life left.
Keep it regular, and don't be no sucka...
Marcelle D. Ward
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