He is her decaying leaf, her dead bag;
Her cuelty left over with desire;
He can’t please her stings much less;
Fill her air with fire.
Too less - do they know;
The sad deadness of the willow green;
The surest denial (he), the only love she has ever seen;
Cast in two fold the flag of false fallacy;
She has more now than any male fantasy;
Come what the earth hath held and moved, he is always the liar.
She has the run and bolting of every light and fair moon-
Wistful with the yellow, the blue and the crescent smiling fool.
copyright 2010
