The wintered path of truth I walk alone.

Our love was spat from your mouth like the taste of a borrowed cigareete.

Beyond our tomorrows I see no future, just one day of half eaten ignorance.

Your bliss, my torture.

You bestowed upon me the crown of gutters.

I am not real uttered from your mouth.

Slowly constricting my love into a plastic bag shaped like a lie.

Spilt milk gathers not the dust but mould from reason.

Your logic stemming from your self-confidence, equalling naught.

Check and mate my borrowed lover.

Place was our virtue but essence was your time.

I am no rich beggar, I am a second hand clock, broken yet ticking.

Take your brutality elsewhere.

Fuck you.