A Labyrinth

They call my people of the book,
faces buried in the written word,
phrases spoken,
and sometimes heard.
Original sins can be allegories,
the oldest poems,
thrilling ancient stories.
Stone weighted letters,
in age old type,
the first deluge,
and godly might.
Prophets forecast a future,
and I try to decipher mine.
They call my people of the book,
and I am reading between the lines.

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This is the last poem I will write about you;
you see when you kissed me it all went to hell,
because in your sloppy lips,
I tasted what I could not smell.

I was confronted with your arrogance and aggression,
by the way you pushed and squeezed me way too hard,
your selfishness and disregard.

Its hard to communicate,
when every suggestion is questioned,
and you always need to interrogate.

Maybe you would be less lonely,
if you heard anything but your own non-sensical musings,
if you cared about anyone but you only.

And while that night is not a joyful memory,
it caused many illusions to be dislodged,
and now I can say you are just a bullet dodged.

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