She hated it, his love for letters, presented there in keys
Scrunched up sheets, rejected reams, ink defied and squeezed
Telling tales on one another, in whose version could she trust?
Tapping rhythms, shout out louder, in the silence, readjust
Fallen graces, murder, intrigue, part of elementary hype
Letting fingers do the walking, inky bloodline as you type.
Sets and rises, days a muddled, corner sighs in high defence
Particles of skin in chinked light, resting on it's own pretence.
Journey down a road in solace, accompanied by mind's own eye
Words that read the same to others, but pictures always will defy.
Time is held in low abandon, a dungeon that his will adores
Remind him of her own existence, in bold barbaric underscores.........
She left a note in crimson, pleading, on the last page of his book
Volumes on but not exceeding, some day he may take a look
Reminding him that life is something else, to which he should assign
Will he begin another chapter as she signs along the dotted line.
