May I step on your toes,please.

Spilled ink on my letters the postman refused to carry.Abandoned.
Standing pole lines bow down to your presence.Surfeit.
Laced within me the patters of your words.Vociferous.

And I stopped the clock at eleven.


Run out of ink,
my fruitless efforts to engrave some more of me,
upon those frayed pages I now know by heart.
Burnt along the edges,I run my fingers across them
repeating each word etched upon my memory,
I start my journey,I've made it everyday,
raping them of their soul again
giving birth to a new flare in me each time.
And I write you a story in the process,
the script some what new,
characters just you and me (again).

And I stopped our clock at eleven.


These shut eyes speak for themselves,
calling out for you,
talking of feather-iron buttoned strings
and sweet nothings.
Won't you listen?
It's a story some what new
playing our tune so strong.
The same old tune.
Our tune.
And I dance to it like never before.
I'm smiling.I cannot wait.

And now I shall stop the clock.