Word Plague.

Your skin is soft.

Sickle cell of a soul

with a chrome dome:

a giant egg.

A plate of rhymes lead edible,

incredible, up your leg.

Words repeated and seated,

these words in lipstick;

stuck on you.

Words are bad for the heart.

This pauper can not afford you

but applauds the efforts

of this throne placed on an old dust cart.

Sit, my Regina.

You shoulda seen her.

Even the rats let out a plague soaked tear

and drowned in the beer of Death’s camaraderie.

Malarkeys with you mean the world to me.

Galavanting, sauntering and taunting,

teasing and pleasing.

We ease ourselves into a love without words,

but without words we would have nothing.

Without words we would have –


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