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The calligraphy of the amputee is a sketch of you holding me.
July's four thighs, engaging eyes, vacancies of dynamite.
Lured you in, I've got you whole.
So you can feel me half alone.
The other half is an ol' has been, an antihero Errol Flynn.
Pretty things.
The serenity of passivity.
A horror like evil's banality.
Moons, cocoons, and Claire de Lune, unrequited telling tune.
Lured you in, there's nothing to hold.
The other boy is still in me, the amputee's calligraphy.
Pretty things.
When passion, kisses...O no more.
And "O no more" is all that's left, to once again second guess.
Pretty things.
