My flaws and sins, I sprawl in my diary and his, I scrawl in yet another poem;
as I convert to old prisons, these barrened walls, I ventured in vain to turn our home. 
After I ever misheard “soul”, when he most certainly misspoke “cell-”, 
clearly, fore our promised eternal shared heaven descended into my solitary hell. 
Seek I, poetic justice for foul deeds, playing victim, judge, jury, and executioner;
condemn the petty criminal on the run, I abetted in secret, as a cohort of Lucifer. 

The shallowest usable nuggets, I’ve panned in the richest silt of my fabled past,
to wrest into rhyming weapons- my one near-mastered art of this nuanced craft.
To tarnish the yet unequaled precious treasure lost as but specious pyrite all along, 
and me as a swindled tone-deaf fool to ever sing its auric praises in spoken song, 
Wax lyrical on the leaden shroud over unfulfilled night and day dreams now dead,
yet spare my pages, clear silver moon linings and gold sun shining over and ahead.

Endless, I sift recycled debris, lie I find only hollow remnants, no rebuildable blocks;
was left finer than dust in the wake of a skilled con man’s wielded destructive props.
My pen dances macabre steps with phantoms and around life still in reach of hand, 
skips my stale town’s open plots; dwells in promise’s grave of my near new homeland. 
Draws one-way fault lines on an undesigned dead-end road paved in private by two;
now curved its last to an unmarked seismic end, heightened tragics salvage a razed view. 

A cathartic outlet, I let indulge old bents, languor then inflamed into primal nature,
vowing my spilled ink would soon heal in lieu of tears, if it could only stain enough paper. 
But it’s over-flow forged a new stealth anchor over-stilling me retreading sunken hopes,
as its plastic implement outpaced over-looked oaken oars in sheer volume of strokes. 
Traversable miles barely begun only grow longer as I regale only meters I was set back, 
and my battered vessel’s now riddled with more holes from ricochet of my riddled attack. 

A courted fool, I concede was I, to crown a jester known deep not valiant enough for a fight;
and a feigning king who can not concede wrong to a consort could never be her true right.
And confess to know too my back has been had by curving fates despite my jeering couplets
as its hole by the inevitable traitor’s dagger spared it realized ambition’s more fatal bullets.
That he isn’t imperfect enough to be perfect enough for me isn’t solely his fault,
but my emptied arms, I now lower, to evermore lock his thorned-rose memory in a vault;