Love led us here to a place of silence.
Segmented by fears, our split souls
cry out; acutely aware
of one another's absence.
Woeful phrases of spontaneity
provide an upheaval
substantial enough to
awaken autumn's weary soil.
As we strain to fulfill the
demands of unscheduled affection,
we make questionable works of art
from our disheveled pasts.
Curdled desire induces cruel
shrieks of fuming despair,
severing chords, voicing ideas,
biting conviction.
We weave away from the echoes
of long-lost battles, encircling
the body of respect and strangling
it to death with a vengeance.
Feigning peace, we maintain
our secret perspectives, yet
linked deep below the surface,
we use the same set of eyes.
We have carried for centuries
our sacred sentimental charms;
thus flattening ourselves
beneath a flimsy finish,
we display the varied flaws of
so much contrived forgiveness.
Subtle bruises stain our minds
as we bend the day in two.
Jennifer Burnside
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