Ribbons coat my throat until I choke,
a symphony of cacophony.
Humility abounds as I've found little liberations
among the grounds of coffee in my mug.
Your alliterations allow amnesty
and those who follow me say nothing of the days
when we were judged for our poetry and little more.
Whore!
The accusation rings true for all I do with you,
but it's news to the troops who fight by my side
in a battle of the mind to try to spy
on those who shut them out with barbed wire.
Do you smell fire?
Smoke appears, steering clear of here,
but it's near the aberration of our land - the heart.
Ain't love grand?
So ask me now or hold your tongue:
Am I the one?
Or does it matter?
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