I bleed my emotion
through the push of a pen
on the tear stained surface
of your pale parchment skin,
on the napkins of Irish bars
while my pint glass is weeping.
So, my words start to wander
like the thoughts that ushered them.
You won't go down without a fight.
My failed defense lends its plight.
But, this radio song says you'll be mine.
In tomorrow's trenches you'll reside.
Armed as bedside's angels,
with desire comes despair.
Up in arms in passion's throws,
a memory dares compare.
To silence a siren's song,
I search for peace of mind
through the luggage packed
from a lover's past
who occupies my meantime.
You won't go down without a fight.
My failed defense lends its plight.
But, this radio song says you'll be mine.
In tomorrow's trenches you'll reside.