Desperation comes at a time,

when love begins to degrade mind,

can't thy leave the past how it needs to be?

Scarce from serrated fingers reach,

where it should remain – but, of a memory only to bind,

gone from eyes – blind,

left behind....

Shh –

The tiniest of sounds still beats of malign,

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Tapping upon spackled walls that've been chastened from sight,

It raps upon senses to feed my decline,

waiting as the sun shall again be covered in merlot wine,

as heart will incisively falter towards created design,

I am of my own lunacy whine.

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