What betrayal oh poetry;
what fiction-rough disguise,
what witchcraft fooled me proud
this circumstance--cruelly wise;
how dare fuel me hatred
from neglection of artistry
I once worshipped more than prayers
through crafting you my poetry;
why distance in no sense,
no context-filled abstract
only image of us apart
like our poetry's in contrast;
thought of golden string even,
seems now torn, may untied
never truly by my fingers
but how destiny did abide;
come even knocking doors,
come scratching loud my windows
or whisper love above branches,
maybe a breakfast by tomorrow;
only write me letter once,
seal it tight within honesty
perhaps, love unless weakened
for sole context isn't modesty;
but after all, who's attending,
whose patience be worth testing
forgive poetry, be this haste
but this passion's been nesting;
confess me everything you would,
even every maybe I should;
confess the beauty I am hollowed
for my fragility never could;
perhaps, you've written my verses,
uttered loud all my curses,
held me closer than my faith,
better kiss me by these forces.
