Ophelia. Me. Ophelia. Me. Lost love...the common bond.


I am but a sex toy
a tool, represent
an angry dark figure
whose scent lingers yet
and mixes with summer
that rolls in with fog
and lingers on lovers
who, seeking, reach God.
In a moment of panic
it's pulled out of reach
and the object is broken,
drowned by the breach
of a contract once given
with innocent words
but spit on by vipers
whose strangling swords
strike darkness in new light
and death into joy
reminding with violence
I am but a toy.

Poetry by R.
Read 669 times
Written on 2006-10-16 at 02:10

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Zachary P. B.
reminding with violence
i am but a toy...

loved the literary-ness of this (the english language has given me suffixes to create new words, never fear)... wondrous write here.