I nested them

(soft verses—

playful little things)

in your palms,

expecting them

to pin you wriggling

to the floor.

But you tossed them in the air,


that every day I go to war

clad in such metrics.

You throw my armor to the wind,

making kites of cutlasses—

your fingers are gone

after handling such scorched steel.

But you don’t realize—

you don’t know how to feel

the way I do.

You know not what you hold.

Dolon lost his head

for my hell-fire steeds.

Patroclus was clad

in My words

before Apollo ripped him cold.


Recent Posts

See All