I played the piano wire with each throat the metal grazed
upon the ensnared rivalry of lovers turning to decay.
Each cry of protest turns to sour music notes
sung calmly by the crashing waves of the human hurricane.
Angels curse at honesty trapped in my silent thoughts
while friends make no placement of the face that I display
but the surrogate mothers, prisoners of my plagued redundancy
are no match for the contenders waiting still along the way:
those who stand with cross-bows held by sterile shoulder blades,
using knives to clear profanity from between their yellow teeth.
The arrows stab the flesh and tear the inner scars apart
yet search for love and truth in human hearts that lie beneath.
My silent cries for freedom speak of nothing but allusion
to each sugar coated apple wearing snakes around its tongue.
I tie this rope of innocence and love around my neck
weeping and reverting to this disgrace I started from.

And I can scream with benign dreams at an empty city street
as I stare with such uncertainty at the documented artists
taking bets and breaths within their purple, ink-stained hands
while they make love to their pens and form their speech through silence.