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Faulted
The eyes of my downfall meet my own
and an idea is formed.
Perhaps, in a clandestine display of hypocrisy,
an agreement could ferment
and this hunger will ease.
Desires are induced by a melody
sung by a fallen angel of liquid solace.
Soulless words are formed on a cotton-dry tongue,
abrasive and untrue.
Fleeting glances and furtive smirks
hide the decomposition of an angel
shot down by a romantic terrorist.
(A nihilist, self-proclaimed choas)
Everything is lost now, as we curtly nod
and avoid any contact,
ashamed to have spoken, and even more,
to have left this unsaid.
