swamp

He told me, with an earnest face,
that ones like those are not loyal.
He said I know their kind,
I know them well, they grow rooted
deep in the silt.

They're only faithful to their ground,
and at hearts, to their kins, spawned
from the same soil.

Their mouths do utter
pieces of fictions, perfect flannels, they know the art ,
of waving them around, the crimson flowers
that turn to cinders when to cajole
their lips cease.

he told me, with his hands clasped
tight, around me- they're only loyal,
to their kingdom of marshes where no reeds grow.

so stay with me, because i'm seething,
he said, as he dug his nails into my skin,
what would be the good, tell me,
of returning to those mires, where
nothing grows ,

but thieving eyes, charms
made of pretty ooze and slime, see
the lovelaces of the swamps,
they won't lie to you,
But they won't either, tell the truth.