Making Messy Maelstroms Poem by Paul Brookes

No way to deal with angst, mine or yours,
this butterfly turned dragon.
a fire storm that burned till it consumed us.

we stood in the middle of the flames, pure lust,
if lust could be pure, an oxymoron if ever there was one.

now dust has settled, the dragon flew away,
the muddled bed needs changing and all we have is angst
with a scattering of a few dusty love tokens.

your old socks are still under the bed empty and flat,
a metaphor of some kind but what I couldn't say.