The futility of you, I saw, was red, and black.
Thick congealed and poured, into standardised moulds.
Of man flesh.
You were man, and yet not completely.
You poured into life and breathed.
Gasping. And coughed opinions. Salty water dripping.
When emotion was sought to be expressed.
A beautiful soliloquy in pseudo monogamy.
However
I failed to drown behind your lashes.
And in your face I saw.
Beneath the rubbery attire.
The butterfly escaping faint, free spirit inside.
Was not inside at all, but lived on the sleeve,
Afloat on rivers and oceans of desire.
Illustrated in the watered-down windows are your eyes.
But behind yourself and bloodshot.
You failed to see at all, for
You were futile, and man flesh.
It amounted to nothing much at all.