3 Strikes

Warmth, caressing the cheek of evening,
songs, filled the open air.
Pillow side letters, unread, by the dreamer who is unaware.
Uncertainty, and despair no longer care if
love, and happiness have an affair.
It's Chaos.

Words written with a knife,
the paper bled with every letter, but better the paper,
then the skin of my bed.
I said, I would be true, but you.
You taunt me.
Calling out my name with your body,
wrapping me up in the fabric of your dirty laundry.
It's Lust.

Cloaked daggers, stealth, dipped in your poison.
Kissing the presence of death, watching your lips moisten.
Echos of screams, thoughts cold to the touch,
deceit, in spite envy, created this much.
It's Over.