Straining my ears for the slightest sound,
Yet it colours everywhere, splashes to the ground,
As your over emotional outburst peaks,
With cumulus congestus and Brimstone abounding,
Your shreiks like shards harpooning my surroundings,

I bleed profusely in contorting gushes,
But the only thing visible are my own enveloped
Blushes, You hang and you hawk on every word,
As though being lunged at by some predetorial Bird,
Slicing and shredding at each and every sinew,

Now I'm feeling so faint I can hardly continue but,
Play... as I must, with your emotions some more,
In my role as your paid for audible whore,

A twisting, churning, maelstrom of verse,

Testing spindoctors in perceptual coerse.

 

Copyright ©2009 Paul Letch Alias: Murky Pool Publishing Ltd