fighting words of confinement
beyond a shipwrecked truth i called my muse
we worked in ways where things became divine
i wrote you a prose and called you mine
to tackle our tune of broken lightning
curled on a couch in the deepest crevice
we called our truths, you said i love you
to sit in lies, i twine in my past
where things we regret would never end
to bend, to break, it was ever so unconditional
i spoke in actions and left words to pages
you said i didn’t love you because the poetry was never about you
but we don’t write about people who love us
we curled our greed, abuse became of thee
where emotions rang and hands made rounds
days i looked in the mirrors of oakhurst
wondering if i became to understand the truths of hues
i wade in the dark of broken down lightning
where fires began when renovations started
desire and passion dwindled with wind
breeze of our past stuck on a hinge
our doors turned with every page
tables turned with every day
you hurt, but i hurt too
you were a muse, but maybe i was too
turning muse