Mockery

after the punctures
the knives await,
fresh wounds magnetizing
the tender tips of the blade.
a smile to do the mischievous trick;
a wink to cover up
the advent of a eulogy.
she stammers in the only art
she knows, dabbles in
the petty facade of whoredom
she doesn't welcome,
while tears fade to black
and the canvas smudged
in peach,
intuition defied.

Space

for the night has reached its premature limits,
two correspondences playing with unseen letters.
no hope recalled, nor love undreamed,
no morning sought for ends to reunite.
the knell for the world today
has seen a colder page;
he prays but doesn't listen
and she sings but never dances.
the rhymes, the reasons,
still contradicting,
holding separate, shuddering
beliefs, coursing different lines
to fall
with a crash.