On the grips of tandems temperament,
We never cut the glass.
Springs pocket locked-- somewhere deep beyond the prisoner;
The becks, the calls,
All lead back to Sunday mourning.
Black veils, stilettos, and pocket watches
Tick, tick, ticking
The tidal waves away;
Meadows of flirtation with paramount pressures
Leaking paradigms mystery.
The protagonist missed the plague again;
While wishing wells swim with stagnant memories,
She spreads the seeds over copperfield's,
Without roots, without nourishment,
They shall never flourish
But the shell will still remain-- empty,
Waiting to take the first sip.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
