Her tongue dances
at the familiar taste of poison
but she can no longer
differentiate between
boundary and fortress.
But, this could have been right
this Knight and his chords
that gambled and dared
that his hands should graze
and rest on her flesh.
But alas, only a confession
words written and stripped
long burned and drifted
Now simple reflection
timing, misaligned and misspent.
The Inkwell Files 