The Unfolding Scene


My enemy serves on silver platter that which appeals to my palate

He observes how I observe

But neglects to notice that I am mute, never making an invitation of flattery

He uses color to his favor

Knowing that the perfect snare is off limits, he dents the sides of my would be cage with kicks of rage, but then calms because he knows he already has me

It is my perfect snare that he is after, but he cannot have her

Not through me

Not through anybody


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