Running from the knife-wielding
Man, whose eyes are upon the dead glance
Of a thousand women, more
Than the fields where he buried
Those memories he adored.
Cruelty stains the running mouth
Once of audible syllables, left uncouth
To the broken beauty
Whose eyes may match the skies,
Where Heaven subsides,
As the daylight dies.
She carried thorns, attached to a rope,
Leaving a trail, for him to unveil
Her, from the moment,
Where a many more of much spice
Were thwarted by the face,
Beaten by the dice,
Eaten by chance.
Of love, where each fallen vowel
Is to the consonant’s forgiveness,
For what clumsiness
Could make evenness
When he finds himself to dance
In all he had discarded?