Love, you are a feckless slope,
an inertial slip of days
swinging praise into picture frames,
taking turns tallied in time remembered
only in passing throes;

you are a magpie on a muddy grave
plucking blame from confessions,
singing songs of rain in vain processions,
asking if it's okay to be brave.

05/12/2018

Posted on 05/12/2018
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