"For all our days," you lied to me,
under eggshell skies of blue and grey,
careful to assure with gentleness -
knowing intimately my wounding.
Your milk-white arms were Sophists,
open in embrace, slender in their truths,
uncertain how to say to me "We end."
Ended, yes, with silent tears and lust,
my lover's calamity made plain, your
madness born on August's sands,
all your promises now spit and dust.
YOU ARE READING
A Wrong Turn
PoetryA collection of poems that chart a relationship from its genesis to its failure and beyond.
