We will say
we slept through October
curled around the hard nut
of how-it-is.
But that is not the truth of it
it does not explain
sleepless anxieties
the balled fists
and nail marks in palms.
It does not explain
extended silence
how the tick of the clock
can boom and thunder
waves of nothing to say
slamming against us
Your hands are melded to my spine
I fused our skin
so blood
you spill
each day
for her
now flows
through me
a constant pulse
a ragged beat
I have only my self to blame
so I blame you
We
who cannot be split asunder
dividing
cells cloning and
spreading
A virus
polluting each breath
till the rank
scent engulfs and consumes
Truth is a lie
carefully gift wrapped
in subjectivity
Yours or mine
both need a ribbon
to make it prettier.
2 comments:
this:
Truth is a lie
carefully gift wrapped
in subjectivity
is profound, and beautifully worded.
Something I've often tried (very clumsily)to say.
Great poetry!
All truth is opinion I guess, or perspective, it amounts to the same thing, thank-you Moon *smile*, glad you liked this snippet, I am partial to it as well :)
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