Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction.
And you a woman of lies and deceit, stumbling forward on two left feet.
You are an exquisite figurine of an incomprehensible place,
While I, a soldier of my cause, my race.
A single sip of you would satiate thirst, hunger and empty.
Yet, you stand unmoved, comfortable knowing you could stave desires plenty.
To my heart, you are known as 'shatter.'
Between saint and sin, you are the latter.
End, not even my finest words will matter.
The still, the silence, even then, you are famine to my soul.
My chest lacks certain weight now; I simply wish to be whole.
Now, I stand before you broken, humbled and so bare,
Only to see your infinite eyes brimming with no care.
Your heart is a cauldron that burns darkest fuel.
And I a remnant of smog, the overly-bitter fool.
The man of fiction stumbles forward on two left feet,
The woman of lies weaves words of conviction and deceit.

Hubert Martin