Shakespeare was stolen from my heart
That night as he lit a cigarette
Under flickering streetlights at the end of alleys
With mosquitoes in his eyes.
The rust crept amongst his expression;
Like violate architecture wrought in chalk-lines
Nicotine bullet-wounds and Hail Mary.
I found myself on scabbed knees -
A gravel silhoutte and promising sorry.
Crucified on his every breath, demeaned.
But he said nothing to me
Only glanced down and flicked his cigarette
Flashed a debonaire flick of his hair
Graced the air with a click of his tongue
And impaled me on his gaze.
Weighed and consumed;
Summed and totalled and divided
and left in halves, quarters, segments.
He stole Shakespeare from my heart
In every deft movement of his hands.
He took Keats from my eyes
With every slick inhale of his cigarette.
He took everything I thought I knew
And replaced it with breathing.
And yet, somehow I still knew
He knew more about murdering angels
Than any summation of my years.
© 2008 Guillotine
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Printed from www.DarkPoetry.com/dp/11958/112095 on Thursday November 20th, 2008 08:21 AM
Certain elements © 1996-2008 Matthew Steven (matts.org)
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