misconstrued

the whole
of the trouble
the entirety–
of the conundrum
is that all has been written
poetry, scrawled with a crow’s quill
dipped, scooped, and swirled
in black-blood bent-dagger wounds
each poem, an eleven-rose bouquet
gifted–
the whole
of the trouble
the entirety–
of our pounding-drum conundrum
is that all has been written
the bleeding riddles, unsolved
whistle-fool summer-moon serenades
the words to which, mostly forgotten
left to memory’s
falling-leaf malfeasance
crisp, and spinning
wind-strewn
misconstrued