His quivering lip, bloody and bitten,
The lone mutineer, in a body forlorn,
Cracked as it sang his song still unwritten,
Admitting the guilt of a heart being torn.

Her glistening lips, pouty and painted,
Self-photographed in a well-practiced pose,
Sent to a sinner whose body she sainted,
Condemning the singer, but that's how it goes.

In its defense, his lip bears the burden,
Of missing the warmth his fantasy sold,
Killing each kiss, and closing the curtain,
On a heart barely beating, hopeless, and old.

But a stiff upper lip can fake a wry smile,
If it means saving a face from a frown
So that, and all black, will be his new style
Until it's no longer concealing a clown.

Until all the stars come crumbling down.

Until she gives in and unfastens her gown.

Until he forgets and turns back around.