this is for a tyrant

i cry, i scream, i write poetry for my dark muse

it pleases me more than solving his cryptic clues

as mercurial retrogradation comes to an end

he wants to know who i wrote this for: it is him

this is for a tyrant, and for hoping someone sees

my second blink in a sea of wide batting lashes

rolled all the way back, no scratch on the 8-ball

fogging up the glass from down on the floor

i am only his reason for rising every morning

trauma bonded in love and so informally engaged

we planned on maybe someday, then, yesterday

to perendinate knowing and chasing dreams

give me his crocodile kisses and butterfly esteem

coupled oddly, inseparably corrupted bedfellows

who wants to be wanted as a renewable resource

don't follow the road if the bricks aren't yellow

only the wicked or ignorant deny their shadows

steady flows can make ocean out of a anything