You are the prisoner of your own tongue,
diminished to a minnow, spat into a puddle;
by one wrong word, you came undone
and now you're in a man-made muddle

She wears her scorn now, on shoulders,
shuddering under a brow black shawl;
you thought it would make you bolder
and that thought traversed the wall

And made it past your guarded lips,
and wouldn't mean anything at all.
You've made a widow of those hallowed hips,
and a widower of passion who falls

on the mercy of a shrine to this fate:
where two hearts, swollen black with hate;
enfold and dismantle every gentle kiss
and all the gathered moments come too late

To hide a truth, that you laid bare,
dull thudding like a dental pain
The truth is that you were never there
and time will remind you, over again

You'll keep, in generational wounds,
your longing spirit, distilling;
that fear woven solitude looms,
and the time will go on killing.