The day I fell from grace
And words lose power evermore
“You once fancied this space”
I gesture to the floor
This is your home

Obliged to your seclusion
I pictured you in positions plenty
Mouth agape
In your greatest escape

And I was your perfect little metaphor
Somehow I’m sure
I’ll be buried here, in the written word before me
An author’s final story
This is your home
Where tombs house the dead alone

(Alone)

The hand that fails the wrist
Can’t let the body do its work
And should that hand become the fist
Fill it with a quill, it does the trick
That’s what you said to me
In our pasts tense

I’m your better half
I’ve been your author all along
And what lies written must come out
My love, my friend
Besides, don’t you wanna hear my song?