Charlotte Renaud

Arts & Culture Editor

He is the author of this poem,  
If this is to be written from my heart.  
A love so untamed it must be condemned 
To a sentence behind bars, far from art. 

He holds all of my words at fingertip. 
He alone can play the chords of my voice.
That lonely cigarette between his lips 
Lingers with him: temptation is no choice.

He holds all of me eternal in his eyes. 
An equilibrium before disposal. 
Downing the boiling coffee at sunrise,
Burnt butterflies - this pain is ambrosial.

And if this love is tried, it would hit walls.
As the gavel drops, the futile ashes fall.