He is a collector,
she is his butterfly
and he wants to pin her down,
to see his prisoner cry
He looks on her beauty in wonder,
satisfied that it is he
that she has found
and she is his
forever bound
to adorn his Freudian arm,
to bear the brunt
of his brutal charm
In jewellery, she will shower
as he comes to buy her love
but this shallow show of fiscal flow
will never be enough
It is far beyond
his ken to understand
that the most precious gift
is the tender hand, or
the look of love in the eyes
but his stare says
‘I own you…
and I will stifle your cries’
Love between them is never made
but his greatness is thrust upon her
like an animal craving release,
no tenderness,
no caress,
no inner peace
He wants to know
where she is going,
what people she sees…
for possession is nine-tenths
of this mans’ law
and she can second guess
the third degrees
as jealousy continues
its unreasoning stroll
through his gardens of obsession.
never pausing to smell the roses,
as the tendrils of his insecurity
grow wilder,
smothering all
