my cold tin heart
beaten into form
by the callously
disregarded sighs
regurgitated in
soulless embers
of these dreamscarred
wispy unoblivions

frozen in amethyst
these alabaster lies
on the subtle edge
of brittle recompense
left drifting alone
the incidental wreckage
swirling sapphire sorrows
in my scarecrow brain

my love is a bucket of filthy water,
left stagnant in this dismissive
home of disingenuous
dreamshudders, calamitously
incomprehensible in comparison
to the fleeting taste of
saccharine on lips never meant
to be tasted, reality is
redundancy relegating ruin in
my cold tin reveries