Author: Inkspilled PM
First attempt at rhyme and rhythm, in iambic tetrameter. "When languor turns to bitter guile."Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 159 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 03-01-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3001802
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February 20, 2012
No languor falls as sharp as ours
beneath the cherry budding tree.
No hope can hide frail bitter scars
When 'you and I' becomes just 'me'.
While quick like sobbing rain it falls-
the civil'ty of human needs
gives way to cold, aversive gall
and makes the burning match of me.
Our ceasefire deal is weakly sick,
this false pretense of safety met.
But there beneath the faded bricks
of over-arching hopes turned debt,
the bloody corpse, of dreams now gone.
And how could you mend bridges burned?
Your moral worth mixed right with wrong,
still I owe tax for lies unturned?
Now stale blooms caress our eyes,
this mockery* turns uttered words
to wasted talk, too old for lies.
Teeth speak of venom, voice unheard.
When languor turns to bitter guile,
in used up time, the clock will die.
The bias caught inside a smile
will ask of us to sever ties.