Bed of Refuse

Those sullen things you carry

that dulls since the years have flown, far & long ago

 

deaf to the tears of stolen hearts you drink,

eves of ice evident that you are married to the burden

of your whispered soul

 

lost with not a fear - in the dark - quicksand to sink;

i believed, repeatedly, your delusions

i ignored the stink...

 

In my confusion and naievete, trust becomes devoured

i allow you to name it Love - feigned and resigned

 

with my body as your food for trophys' power

and my life (confined) as another object to bind

 

i fell, daily (without a spine), easy to your words - empty

as my mortal madness is defined...

 

These strings of gravity

that manipulate my puppet's loose legs

dance to the pain of a hopeless / helpless tune

 

tho' Love is naught

but your weathered circus tent

my cheer and wishes in dreams harpooned

 

suddenly  (like whiplash)  saddens me,

a tired king's jester spent

spit on, pushed down, laughed at - a fool

 

who is to say, who's days with wisdom,

broken by depths of his own open fields, schooled,

 

in continual faked beds of refuse

still understands the breath of Love's worth,

 

yes, i was a fool,

in our premier mirth, the soft girth of feelings for you

 

i am saddened to know our touch, untrue,

was just

another notch, post-haste, your b***h (with sandpaper)

 

screwed

 

on his bed of refuse...