On the elusive stage of my own design
I stand beautifully empty.
Your stacks of words burn like Pompei.
as my stance remains unfailing
though inside I burn with passion.
A facade of golden brick and mortar,
I called your name and it felt like war.
Happy endings are dependent on the
poet’s final verse.
A manuscript of love and a limerick of lust.
We are closer to the truth than the kettle to the stove
yet drink from the cup of destruction.
Lethargic with our words and
the moment I noticed,
I didn’t want to know.
Discovering that the light at the end of the tunnel
May only be a mirrored reflection of our searchlight.
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