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Twixt my lover's faults
Cemented are perfections
His heart entrapped in a vault
Due to whirlwinds and misdirections

In lapses of romance
He'll ask me to dance
The way the morning
Insists on cocks' horning
He'll take my hand, limply
And demand of me, simply
To follow his lead
And though I say nothing, he justifies this need
As an act of practiced art
And with his firm grip, he may start
By dragging me across the floor
And whispers evermore
How he loves what I wear
O! And the scent of my hair
And begs me not to reciprocate
Explaining there's more in him for me to hate
His grip becomes all the more tight
As he looms over with all his height
With all the condescending
And childish admiration blending
To create a leer
Intent on inciting fear
So, in my husband's hold
He expected me to fold
Yet, artfully, our hands unclasped
In a way most guttural, he rasped
For me, his doll,
To heed his call
To say
I ran away
Suits not the speed
The bravery nor confusion
Of this strange effusion
Of pure doll and whole adult
No, she ran like a misbeliever of the omnipresent occult
Divorcing herself
From a chauvinistic someone else