Open, over-poured floral prose, for wry grit rich, aged as poorly as a marked poor man's brut rosé uncorked wine,
for scrived I, a vintage truth as entwined set stem of heady legs, fore his twisted end over-turned was it but mine.
Effeted morns past, storied anew into eonian morrows, feted untold, spoilt so into fetid seasons passed on again,
so an odic tome willed influxed into immortal ink of iron-gall will instead flow of a more mod, spare medium pen.
For root of all rhymes, as apsirant tried, ruled just as uncoined fable couplet; wasted dime on seedy yellowed page,
as meter of any reason, for zealot rendered, heard sound for but thirsty jester’s fancy; ill-adapted for present stage.
So hardy mystical lyrics, heavenly told lively high to ethereal rafters, now to fast drip low out loosed phantom lips,
as our hearty oak conjuring letters, a lured frame noted, in soil-sunk stiff finish, spelt a siren aria to toasted ships.

He graced me with a charmed majestic robe stained deep ruby hued spinel and drift snow pyrite tones of real love
and the prismatic-threaded true mantle of a warmed, courted fool draped as wears a faux fox fur tailor-cut glove.
With, too I raveled til bared amidst a dense, disenchanting mist out-dueling as riddling fences of sharper stones,
so anew rose, a spry feigning Kyng and Queen of York usurped from their reclaimed old composite Tudor thrones, 
Past signal shots flew stealth by save back-turned eyes, in wilder of dual nature, he kept sheathed a brazen sword,
to, as expert, wield more gutting blades of apathy in handier scabbards til cloaked as shallow as a traitorous lord.
So as the wars of the rose of reversing tinctures waged unstemmed on a pickt daisy field rolled blood-dyed green,
in fray's retreat, a lone left petal ceded our favor to join a muddy grave of a sage seer's scroll over trampled unseen.

Called back in time, and again, to leading roles, both yet miscast, for, as virtuosic practice never did refine our art,
all of my any bit mistaken lines or laid missed cues re-cited overplayed in his oft missing, yet brisker ticking heart.
But he showed up to audition through rehearsal nights ever so well-dressed in a swaying costume of a better man,
so lights, come opening on, froze upon a mask set all aflutter as any proper distressed Victorian damsel plies a fan,
in feinting codas, in haste rescripted, reframing his part til to a paid due in song hero in any over bad acted scenes,
til too, in off-scaling theatrics, a martyred victim to my wily villain, reparaded through in all but comical routines.
So, in singular foil, a bowing out danced divo washed in gas our house ere slow dropt a lit match to bring it down,
as his starlet panned, yet delicate, staged left over-extra tapped dramatics as befitting best a petulant party clown.

Heads ever closer plotted a smugglers' pass of ports with a foresighted XX to mark, nigh his current, our new spot,
but MM more malefic turns of capricious tides saw crisper bound still a circumspect-mis-pegged launch for Ø.
He commissioned legends for a map of snarled channels recharted, but not of II to bridge each custom-coded key,
so seems I, per nearer →, steered IV wrongs as, unfolded, buckled on bow to overpassing waves of a crashing sea.
Else grip engulfed held out safe, waited too sure of his, in balance, due to bear ampler chest to split free rally's fare,
but in a foaming crowned swell, came fuller held, only my wide crystal gaze by his salty crested marauding glare.
So for once a bailing Jack, tarred flag tatters so come XX by bone made all rejoined allies fit ashore an ancient land,
as wreckt I tendered reserved spirits aft dry, far past fm, he tied knotty sandbags quick to anchor an open ← hand.

An ecstatic duet of harmonic hymns lost its sole voice of performative faith as mine still blindly praised in prayer,
when he forsook our paganic temple and his anointed angel to descend unto razed unhallowed ruins of disrepair.
Saw, in crux, for false, his goddess sworn now as out-worn gorgon's guise as idled eyes turned slated to sacrifice,
so chilling bolts of ere my blue-flamed steel smote his early fall's leafy altars to dust over so ashened shards of ice.
Past, in distinct rays, stray wisps of a damned Sunday scripture preacht in vain to void, save ringing vespers, mass,
crackt as stained, a sacred communion of divined devotions ere so confesst of impure supernal paned lancet glass.
So bread we'll never break as one again, for was, now an onrushing unholy tonic, still rising, re-formed to blood,
as brook-apt, one true suffering central ark found too crosst by holes to berth aside its wholly too beastly flood.

Over arbitrary laws billed aft broken, if so was deemed to suit, he'd, to need, fix to freeze out my doe-eyed face,
in order to hear criminal appeals of back-chased passion's proof, sensational, to reopen a yet tad prickly embrace.
Still, vigilant, by vigilante code, he judged no bar too low for him to over-fail, in all cases, I rose to take fair stands,
so smoking guns lifted, til ever further unholstered from hip side of truth, last leveled true in hair-triggered hands.
As uncited trials by forces of fire tipped no cease merciful to a perjured oath of unstayed, made paper-thick, hope;
yet to clock thieves hung fate a bit yond seal, til saw he fitter to drop defense's weight to abet the pendulant rope.
So a committed bond, promised on honor to what joint life remains, ere in death getaway of his valor's conviction,
came settled but late swinging for gallows, to condemn petty pleas for just shred of in common guilt's admission.

Encircled, his arms were our grand moated castle on a distant moor; mine our open-range hearth to keep it warm,
but as out this recessed hall; shared dreams in unshared sheets, our lonely shielded shelters in a shithouse storm.
Biding restless pining, we hunted a cozy den to be, at its end, our nest, yet rose at threshold's eave his thorny wall,
so my lover with a saved seat at my every table, took me out but never home; this was his place, he made the call.*
As a primed august bed was unmade in waste of more entangled nights in we'll unshakably never now overspend,
a closed blackout blind to celestial infinite starlit ceilings down-spiraled swift my only left compass to circle’s end.
So any door he holds two keys to til rings a knockoff bronze, past yet haunts e'er the clearer claret spectre of regret,
as sheer rent designs' immutable gilt trim taunts sole auric shades he bids to hold, or why, he did ere to try forget. 

Purgative tears dwell at my laden, dogged dam of lashes, so my briny ill bottled sable ink must over-spill instead,
to start clean out on patient-brief, unlined parchments unscrolled to a novel full blank canvas in my flushed head.
Penned luster of ere quixotic portraits came shadow-cast til spun only graphic skeletons of fictive gothical horror,
so then on, light loops of graphite will engrave fair mortal's prophetic lines of fantasy til illustrated timeless lore.
I may draw no longer rulers' scepters raised forth in offer, but as straight, will too to no sleighting fronts to charge
or archaic chivalric characters bewitched out of callow myths of old if any new leads, dashing, by off odds emerge.
So while I'll leak volumes of traces of next coming tales drafted between last begun and my final closing chapter,
mind no words to fall within mayhap, my ending are, as if crafted by quill of Merlin's stone, I lived truer ever after.

*Clearly intentionally, and intentionally clearly, ripped off of Taylor Swift's song "Lover" and modified just enough to fit my narrative. 

My floral prose aged as poorly as a poor man’s uncorked wine,
when I tried to write our vintage truth, his twisted end overturned it mine.
Our yesterdays storied into morrows, spoiled into yesterdays again,
so the odic tome I willed into ink will instead flow from another’s pen.
The root of my rhymes, ruled fiction in couplets wilted on yellowed page,
the meter of my reason, heard fantasy, in scripts unsound for modern stage.
So the celestial lyrics I told to rafters will now lilt from loosed phantom lips,
as our ghostly letters I put notes to, spelled our siren song for sunken ships.

He graced me with a charmed, majestic robe dyed a deep pyrite shade of love,
and the true threaded mantle of the courted fool draped as fits a custom glove.
But frayed to bare amidst a disenchanting mist forging a riddling wall of stone,
so the feigning Kyng and Quene of York were usurped from their Tudor throne.
Past warning shots flew unheeded warning he’d keep sheathed a brazen sword
to wield the sharper blades of apathy in scabbards cloaked on a traitorous lord.
So the wars of the rose waged unfought on rolled fields of blood-stained green,
and our last petal fell to share the muddy grave of a lost seer’s scroll unseen.

Called back in time and again to leading roles, practice never did refine our art,
as my missed cues or misconstrued lines echoed overplayed in his missing heart.
But he showed rehearsal nights dressed in the swaying guise of a better man,
so opening lights set on its mask waved aflutter as a proper damsel plies a fan.
As his feinting codas reframed his part to unsung hero in over bad acted scenes;
the martyred victim to my wily villain paraded pure in all but comical routines.
So a divo soaked our house in fuel; slow dropped his lit match to bring it down,
once a tactful critic panned his tapped dramatics as befitting a petulant clown.

We plotted a smugglers’ slip of port with a far-sited XX to mark new our spot,
but MM more turns of more withering tides bound still my launch to naught.
He commissioned a legend for a map recharted but not for one to find my key,
so I steered wrong as I began to sink in over-passing waves of a crashing sea.
My flailing grasp outheld for his, in balance, due to provision our treasured air,
but in swell, the only met was my crystal gaze by his crested marauding glare.
So a tattered flag now double-X’ed by bone was all did reach his ancient land,
as so wrecked I yielded no wind far past last, he tacked an anchor to my hand.

A duet of hymns lost one voice of faith as mine still blindly praised in prayer,
when he left our temple and his angel to fall in unhallowed ruins of disrepair.
Saw false his old goddess in gorgon’s eyes as his idle turned slated to sacrifice,
so chilling bolts of blue smote leafy altars to dust over ashened shards of ice.
As wisp of my damned Sunday scripture preached sole in vain at empty mass,
stained carnal communion of divined devotion til cracked as window’s glass.
So bread we will never break again, now unholy tonic was reformed to blood,
as his central ark was to crossed by holes to bear whole its too beastly flood.

For aribitrary crime not law til abetful he framed to freeze out a doe-eyed face,
demand to hear appeals of passion’s proof to reopen a yet bit prickly embrace.
Still judged no bar too low for him to fail, in any case, I rose to take fair stands,
so smoking guns unholstered from truth leveled true in hair-triggered hands.
While mistrials by fire tipped no mercy to his perjured oath of unstayed hope,
and hung our fate unsealed, til he dropped his defense to side with the rope.
So a committed bond, sworn set for life, fore death of his courage’s conviction,
settled for gallows to condemn pleas for just shred of joint guilt’s admission.

His arms were our castle on a distant shore, mine its hearth to keep us warm,
but shared dreams in unshared sheets were our only safe shelters in a storm.
We found a den to be, at its end, a nest, yet on threshold’s eve he chose to fall
so my lover took me out, but never home, this was his place, he made the call*
As an august bed was unmade in waste of entangled nights we’ll never spend,
a window closed to starlit ceiling spiraled my one left compass to circle’s end.
So behind a door he holds two keys to, will haunt claret spectres of our regret,
as on barren walls, our canvas unhung, will taunt shades he would not forget.

No tears drop beyond my lashes, so my bottled ink must overspill instead,
to start clean on waiting parchment unscrolled to blank in my flushed head.
Penned light of quixotic verses was darkened til spun fictive gothic horror,
so then loops of graphite will engrave mortal lines til illustrated timeless lore.
I may draw no golden crowns to raise, but too, no sleighting fronts to charge,
or worn characters conjured torn from callow myths, if rare new even emerge.
So while I’ll leak volumes of traces of tales between now and my final chapter,
no matter the words to fall before, my last are etched, “I lived truer ever after”.