S.ilently M.uted

This Love,

Like a child unwell,

Got me;

Piece by piece,

Under a spell.

To bicker and waste,

All this time,

Make Haste,

So caustic your tongue,

Leaves me with the bitterest of taste.

Put on my armour,

Swivel around,

You think to shoot the esteem inside her

And have her crumble to the ground.

This love,

Terminal and obsolete, and  

 To think I'd clammer without you;

Come a-beggin by the heel of your feet.

But noway

Not me,

No longer,

Those words left me pulled asunder.

Not me, not now,

Not ever, No how.

Painting "Autumn" by Alana Armstrong