Analysis of She Is A Ghost Town...

Poetry's fashioned on the crack of a harsh look.

Love's handed over with a delicate word,
eyes speak parlous anger.

Precious silence is broken-battered
as I twist origami shapes that smile;
paper thoughts on table-tops.

A thousand different personalities erupt,
the room's a whirlwind of pleasure
while pain seeks the rhythm of sorrow,
with a kiss I blow subtle minds wild.

"My choice is mine to make,
I can write a poem without words
if that is my desire, my wish."
She breaks the pen these eyes hold,
ink stains her rippled anger as sighs fade.

"I am a poet - my time is spent curled
up inside words; flutters of fine language.
Ego; emotional complexity,
I am simplicity with the folds
of a wondrous intellectual pause."
But she is not impressed with that.

"Sometimes I'm a whir of feathered motion
or the broken back that aches - Withered!
Always I am chasing the day; the night.
I devour artistic behaviour
on occasion and delve into colour,
but whatever my title says, I think."
Her shrugs are slaps across my spirit.

And this volatile road slowly winds,
I feel like the last man alive,
savouring every single moment
before the bubble that envelopes me
is burst by her laughter, her rage.
No flurry of birds grace
this quiet time, remembrance,
she is a ghost town in my head.