There was a crime that unfolded, started as passion took place,
But he spoke much too fast,
Upon nuzzling the neck,
to hold attention’s, taste.
Fiddling with my violin,
striking every chord,
Then I became uneasily aware of his motive, of running minds in circle, and awaiting his, reward.
His words were preset too shatter egos,
like blown glass.
Habitually plotted against the heart first,
too make it feel last.
He lead with piercing questions,
to break down defenses,
Premeditatedly bleeding the heart quickly,
while shooting down,
In sight- into smithereens.
Little did he know,
they both only,
to sit upon a rickety shelf
as fragile figurines, weak and in need.
he primed them pushing his technique,
picking through imaginary eggshelled fragments,
He awoke an old spirit inside me, that readily,
sought out this and craved, more.
He was the reoccurring nightmare, that I’d been preparing for.
He was good at switching words, holding situations hostage,
extorting desires, too revisit them later in lockage.
As I found him,
through my catalog to gain,
in playing my violin,
too narrate the story, of his pain.
He should have left dormant,
that which resided in me,
until he was more well informed,
of my success dealing with, tragedy.
He tried to turn to a different chapter, as my role, was in play,
the sweet heroine, the disguised angel,
that effortlessly saved the day.
He wouldn’t hear of it,
and angry passions stirred and
and in the very moment he dismissed her,
She lit a match, in doused,
Then watched outside his window, as he became engulfed,
by his own contemptuous pain.
A crime of passion had been committed,
and he had himself too blame,
for his part of betrayal,
his pride’s persistence, in changing the rules, too another player’s game.
By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright © 2017