A Neat Pocket

Scorned by the 'Thank you' uttered with cold hate,
my mascara runs across sorry tears,

please pop this capricious mood and save me
from the hopeless whimsical coppery

desperation which I seem to have blessed.
Me and you are lost in peeled orange shades,

pleading like children for hard toffee life.
Can't you make me feel alive anymore?

I implore you; dangerous spirit, crash
that body language against this fracture

that is forever widening my soul.
Naked fascination stripped me of love,

unpredictable, impulsive am I -
but I can change! Let me flow with tender

ripples and enter the wet world once more
where your strokes of imagination are

strengthened by the lithe possibility
that I court inside dimensions of sleep.

Surely you can grant me my dark delight?
If I fail you again then cast me to

the side of hot anger with an iced gesture;
blue to compensate the lava which rolls

along the words that leap from your vicious
personality traits, which of course, are

adored by this woman who gives you her
all; wrapped in a neat pocket of suspense.