I've been through the fire, burnt just too many times.

Lies like the flames. Girls like the crimes.

A paper-thin heart of the most intricate glass,

bottled inside: the polished shards of my past.

The cracks in my eyes yield to the blood leaking through,

staining the muse of my once utopian view.

Hands like hollow homes hold onto frames and memories,

but even photos gather dust, even hands become weary.

For to some just a drop is a small drop in the sea,

but for me the sea is the drop and the small drop is me.

Embers into ashes, to dust then into anchors,

It is the lie that corrupts, not the mistake that even matters.

Superficial strings attached to the pulse in my palms,

control the ebb-and-flow of feelings that has left me disarmed.

As the tide washes in, what happens to the footprints I made?

It seems the sea has swallowed them licking his lips with the waves.

So how many daggers can the human flesh try to withstand

when the tongue wields the blade and false intensions deal the stab?

I never believed it until now, yet it's something I have learnt...

It's all fun and games, until someone gets hurt.

© 2022 Greg Megaw | Awakened Arts