Breathing the ghosts
of a once brilliant rage,
now only forces
a pen to a page.

The newest geography,
of flesh, freshly torn,
becomes a new function,
no beauty, nor form.

To serve, then survive
a purpose, unknown.
Trade a tear for your trouble,
or blood for your moan.

Because your kisses
were the last I enjoyed,
because my caring
was truly employed,

because your body
was a mapping of wonder,
and I followed the road,
to a heart, torn asunder.

To some poor excuse,
but no reasons why,
left here in doubt
from your one foolish lie.

I'm breathing the ghosts
of your intent.
To use, then abuse,
to breed malcontent.

But still, love, you force
my pen to this page.
Your beauty, becoming
a most brilliant rage.

(c) 2003 by (++)Laura(++). All Rights Reserved