When he pulls away as he must
shall I then secure tight my eyes.
For to cry – would end it all.
Brittle afternoon, winters prelude
to the fall.
Should I stay in this chaotic routine
caught between the bed post and
the words to end it all?
Or attack swift, with verbal skill
straight to the heart with words to kill.
From the petals edge, I flick the
dried remains, of roses long since blown.
Speak I implore – please speak out loud
Yet, my words linger, unspoken convictions.
As round and round we sin, on our
carousel, of make believe.
Though we sleep on sheets of purest white,
soiled ground distorts our vision.
Sawdust, amber moon; from torment to elation
I battle them, one by one, then knock
Incantations soar on wings of tissue slight,
stopping only to ask –
Could I hold my days as one – if you should not,
frequent; my nights…
Poppy Dec 2012
This was awarded Poem of the Day