Free Write 1, Week 4
I love you much, my most darling dear.
In my arsenal of words, there's only one that is clear--
baby, you're a whore, nothing less and nothing more.
Slowly you escaped from the back of my mind,
but sober and grave grow merry with time.
Your trinkets of love were like packets of salt,
and no matter what you said, it was always my fault.
Your hands were settlers, and my heart was your peddler.
My hands are stained, and my heart's in a grime,
but ev'ry rose will grow merry with time.
You haunt my dreams like a loose angel in guise,
but your halo's aloof, and you're a lord to the flies.
Baby doll, you hide it all behind your horns and shawl.
A few years from now, you will come to my mind,
but there's never a rose that grows fairer with time.