Of smooth stone and reason,
on the blind battlefield of love;
to kill rhyme out of season–
naked hands inside a glove.
Verbal bombs, hurled like cannon fire,
as little slipping secrets ricochet around.
To pre-prepare for a funeral pyre–
Who allows love to die without a sound?
To cover up trails they’d forged together,
as the bread crumbs turn to crouton.
All the verbs have flown due to cold weather–
and I looked up to see you were gone.
So I stepped up to the sharpest edge of the sea,
I searched the reflection and it was just me…
Why did I tell her I felt I was in prison?–
I never really thought that she’d set me free.