Copyright

Our mood brew a storm,

stirring up formidable debris,

leaving us...

Treading still waters as you drown us both,

pulling me sweetly,

sinking me deeply,

into your shallow and humble grave.

Your bedside manner,

doctored the pages of my decadent and hollow soul, lying…

waiting...

On the lush and wanton back page.

My flesh, your manuscript,

was coy and deviant

Playing off-key...

But you're just a crystal ball,

making scenes

Holding me down in fabrications and heavy-handed copyrights.

My pride, humble and agile, was dewy fireclay,

Your china doll has cracked,

and is beckoning...

But you're just a crafty stonemason,

piecing me together,

by picking me a part,

in an ivory tower stockade.

~A.B.K.~ ©2016