Love led us here to a place of silence.
Segmented by our own fears,
our split souls cry out,
acutely aware of one another’s absence.
Woeful phrases of spontaneity
provide the upheaval
substantial enough to
awaken autumn’s weary soil.
As we strain to complete the exhausting
process of unscheduled affection,
we create questionable works of art
from our disheveled pasts.
Curdled desire induces cruel
early-evening shrieks of fuming despair,
which take place apart from the voice,
haughty with a biting conviction.
We weave away from the echoes
of long-lost battles, stretching around
the body of respect and strangling
it to death with a vengeance.
Keeping the peace, we maintain
our secret perspectives, although
through subconscious dreams we gaze
from the same set of eyes.
We have carried for centuries our sacred
sentimental charms, and flatten ourselves
beneath a flimsy finish that displays
the varying flaws of contrived forgiveness.
Subtle bruises stain our minds
as we bend the day in two.
Whatever you're writing takes me on a journey...
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