Thank you, frailty.

Capturing you,
Frail.
Forgiving myself for being defenseless.
Defenseless against this agent of my vices.
It is instantaneous,
This numbing forgetfulness.
Indeed, it was not I.

Indeed, I have lost this battle.

Capturing you,
In nothing.
As if strings were attached to the valves of my heart.
You were coursing through my veins.
And through them flow every type of paint you have ever used.

I have stored them all here,
Creating a final masterpiece;
One to make the greats beam.

Indeed, I have lost this battle.


If only there was a bird,
One to fly free,
Of vanilla color to account our incidents.
How pure, Benedict.
Betrayer of my soul.
Conspirator of my sentiment.

Indeed, I have lost this battle.
The paint dries slowly,
Slowly, but it dries more each day.

All that will be left on this leaflet of affection,
Your name,
Red ink.

I have won this war.

by oliviaisahorridpoet
posted on 03/21/2008