His wells ran deep behind the eyes.
Like mysteries denied, they
sparkled despite themselves.
Strangely familiar as though
we had once whirled together dancing
beneath a heavy pool of stars, like clusters
of mismatched glass which, in disarray,
reflect glimpses of hope in the passing.
We shattered then, and wonder now
how a sinking sense of sadness
had prepared departure’s bitter brew,
in which we steeped our anxious hearts.
Now, pacing the sorrow of footsteps traced,
slender moments sludge eternal,
swerving down the wretched sway,
as laughter erases her own animation,
one fine frame at a time.
Jennifer Burnside
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