the stolen verse part I

(The poem is pregnant with truth, and truth doesn't rhyme often, does it.)

These hands don't glisten
when reflection shines
with shards of cruelty
that had been left behind
by the most stubborn thorns -
a rose that is human flesh
they soften with time into pearls.
Not a wonder that they roll off his grip.

These hands don't impress
cracked like wrinkles on a woman's skin
with a curved and deep crevice
that runs through both upturned palms
and shape themselves into the smile
of the inamorato.
i think it is you.

Clairvoyancce is not my game
false security breaks with shame
but these hands are busy, building
a diorama of the empire
of the last fallen queen.
The face that sunk a thousand ships
has a successor to her name.
She sits there with red satin
overflowing the arms of the throne.

Meanwhile she hangs her lingerie
blood red brassieres on the line
swollen with the august gale
it dulls into deep maroon.
She laments her shame into contempt
and looks for the stolen verse.

The lacuna in your gospel
is the title of my tale
the uninked destiny you hoped to compose
robbed and ghostwritten by these hands.
Fury, learn the prints by heart
and hunt them down
the hands that cascade the storm
in the creeks of your open wound
and crash the story not yet spoken
onto the shore of a wordless island.