the troubles

quiet are your eyes of late
that spark of light
lust originates
your tempered flow
is dammed and stolen
waters reverted
back whipped
skin broken
tipping back
a liquored notion
a whirlwind tunnel of emotion
baby doll,
your hands are tied
and cutting in
the rough rope sting
your bleeding wrists
fail to dry
and at your feet
the ground splits wide
threatening to break your stride
but even through
the red witch banter
your smiles wide
and filled with laughter
for it takes a lot more
than an egoistic plot
to tare this giant down a notch