This Time
So what ends here is the mend of recklessness.
We could talk as persons from unreasoned reasoned: lovers.
Each a sword, parrying
betrayal with
cloak seduced naked
tears through sweat
cloak seduced naked
tears through sweat
our grief and joys becoming each other
without vision, hope, with despair chanting
its left hand litany or its thunderless rain
after a great pain. Our bond is a child of Darfur
growing with death: the stench of rot and forgetfulness---
no feelings for the child or for the "us".
Remember when we spent the night in the trenches?
Our night we declared our faith
behind us, with us and perhaps beyond us?
When is recklessness greater then hope?
In touching your fingers, could we
be the ones without this hellish passion, so
we could live in détente and comfort?
This mend of recklessness within silent wars
of us and without us is not mirrors.
Swords as love parry and thrust;
mirrors as love recollect images from our past
into my present eyes with no mendacity.
Yet swords unlike love does not take
responsibility for reflecting their pain on others.
Where does the thrill of our sword stop
so it does not become the balm for ordinariness
or orderliness? Perhaps the simple touch without a charge
to or hold can be the answer , perhaps
a simple deterrence called yes and no.
As swords is replaced by the parable of mirrors
thus finding our answers:
responsibility of not reflecting pain upon our loves
but mending ourselves for the sake od the other.
Yet swords unlike love
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