Saturday, 10 March 2012

Accidents of note

I fell before your rotten smile,
Rich with lust and iced with guile.
You had me bruised, bare-arsed and small,
In thrall to that disease that you call love

In time we found a little space,
To play at home, where we saved face.
I couldn’t stand the kindnesses,
You let fall from your lips in lieu of love.

Now what an autumn noise we make -
Shedding clothes for history’s sake.
The hierogplyphs we shift between,
Are scrawled upon the ruins of our love.

1 comment:

  1. As cryptic as hieroglyphs but clear as you can make it: "scrawled upon the ruins of our love".
    Thanks, WB!