Scribe, your heart is  like  the

white mark inside a target

Pierced by the quill of your

pen which bleeds black ink.

Your love is nothing more than

a mournful remembrance having

an important part to act out, now

in desperate need of company.

And like some unhallowed ground

you are destitute and reek of impurity

The armour plating now tarnished

Your face dawns a death mask.

No sign of lungs breathing, overtasked

they run the gauntlet through a maze

Desperately seeking a place to once

again be embroidered with air.

Scribe, the departure of your faithful lover

now sits upon your thoughts weighing

heavily upon your mind – you put the pen

away in its’ rusty scabbard for all time.

Sand in the hourglass has stolen what

remains of your life – only time left to

plunder and pillage any glimmer of hope

that is trying to whitewash your brain.

Scribe, all the brokenhearted come to pay

their disrespects metaphorically – you did

not conquer mistrust, rather, it conquered

You now get to live in total regret.

Ó 2009 R. Lance Sheridan