Honesty

I neatly fold our love in four, 

I unclasp the window, I open the door. 

I convince my heart to continue to beat,

I hold fast to the ground at my feet.

To the house that we built
On the earths stony shores,

In moments alone,

I become a wanderer of moors.

I find your voice in the whispering heath

In the sighs of the marsh

In spite of mis-deeds
No matter how harsh.

In the light of the stars. 

In the place we called home 

In the once friendly bars

No longer I roam.

And now I know what it would feel like
To be caught up by the night.

To be part of the moon,
A part of the mountain, the mist, and the gloom.

Alone you will stand, at the edge of the sea,
And though my heart may cry out, calling for thee

I know that I know that I'll never return
Your solitary prison I'll no longer sojourn

For the rest of our life,

For of course, we are one

I'll remain more breakable
For without you, my sun

I am naught but a shell, a whisper

Of haze, of memories past
Of long summer days

Of the hushed kisses.

So I content myself sadly,

With writing poems, quite badly

And we both know that I'm not fond of rhyme,

And my rhythm is off, with uneven time

And I bathe in sarcasm,
Though my heart tends to spasm
In the dreadfully misleading
Synonyms that I'm pleading

For I never was yours

And you never were mine,

Though I wrote you some ditties,
You penned sweet Valentines

And this is the moral
Of this sad-standing aural,
That one should know better
Than to write poems when fettered

With a sickness like plague

With a head stuffed and vague

And a cold that cries fury
To thy nose and thy jury

Of now distant friends
Creeping off round the bends

Away from thine ailments
To keep their health from failment 

So alas, my dear friends
We draw nigh to the end
Of this dreadful notation

From a state worse than intoxication

The moral dear reader
Those who've tolerated the meter,
And the clumsy discourse
Poetically alluding to gorse

That would brush the skin raw those

Who continue, leaving red, like my nose.

And the reader quite dizzy

From this lengthening fizzy.

Yes, the moral might be
That, though sick you might be
To write while delirious
Could prove rather serious

To the state of well-being
For any in hearing

Of such a terrible poem,
So I'll leave now, I'm going!

To bed! To bed! To rest my dear head!

Oh, please go now, go now, please do! 

Enough with your rhymes!

Enough with that meter, your peculiar time!

And reader, I thank you, for strong

Dispositions may not last this long

But you, I now fear
Will be riddled with the drear

Of this poetic atrocity,

A literary monstrosity!
Be be off now! I leave thee,
Apologies, now, please, be...

Gone! Go! Flee!