The Split Like the pictures in the hallway where minutes never seem to age, the circle of memories in your mind not allowing the heart to heal. And the world we shared was torn by the drag of heaven while we ran through the great ocean. The fury of the river was a love that kept the beast at bay and the foxes chasing through gambles. Our house was distracted and loaded like standing on both sides of a gun in the pale afternoon. Your madness was a wheel within a wheel, just a spinning trundle that laced my heart silently in the tunnels of despair. Your voice was a tumbling fury bending rays into a fist-to-chin embrace. You said it was nothing but a trick of light; you’d wait in the orchard for hours, while something in the air seemed a little unkind. I thought it was a rich cello being lifted out of its black case, became hands that opened, ripped, served and severed. Now the pen in my hand pressed this page— as significant as your knife pressed to my neck.
Posted on: Fri, 02 Aug 2013 16:50:36 +0000
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