Romanticide

Blood on my hands, though it wasn’t the plan,
questioning which of us is really the also-ran;
her grace untam’d by the days that my conscience
takes dominance and she’s braised with my obstinateness face-to-face.

Traces of her strength still hang upon my brow,
her scent that fills me with doubt;
which way to face the prow of my ship,
have I slipped? Happiness sealed with the stamp on the writ?

Legitimate to labor on the fear of its pretenses,
given the vision of hindsight in the lenses;
flexes physics with a feigning of proportion,
quickly set to dormant, and feared abhorrent.

Horribly heightened by the heeding of one’s habits,
now the pieces damaged, healing heartache with hierarchies,
calling present tense to genuflect to the grasp he’d had on the hearts’
compact, quaking frame – turned cold and lame.

Was it just the same? Were they laying blame?
Did the devious also call her name?
Was there ever grain of truth in their bright demeanors,
did it also make her squeamish?

Is it peevish to break completely a fractured mirror, and no longer lie to peers? Was it fear that flung out every precious tendered moment,
do we walk the loam yet?  Labeling once lofty loves as liars,
and throwing water on the burning pyre?

Mire is mutable and love is resilient,
though it aches now, again one day we will feel it,
so long as it’s not conceal’d, and kept out to cool,
for manure might be shit but it’s also a fuel –
a tool to be taken and twisted to use,
more than a fuse or refuse –
for burning brightly is better than fading,
and blaming ones’ fortunes shall see one quickly jaded.

Maiden – my molecules do beg for reprieve,
do not grieve – keep within your heart belief,
and soon in its chambers brightness there will be,
for time heals all wounds, live on and you’ll see.

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