Tuesday, July 12, 2011


The tides of thy heart are not predicted by the moon
One is caught ill-prepared and is soaked through
Memories flood in, blissfully edited with the shimmering sunlight,
Others fabricated from a scant of truth, meant to disquiet

Her left hand weighs heavy with absent gold rings
It was a promise of only his vast eternity, not hers
Tears overcome, and a muted palette swells
Upon retreat, they’ve washed away the sorrow of the moment

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