The sum of our loveless days

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The morning air has been
whipped into frost to mend the
Barrenness of broken paths,
Sunned to death by the sum of
Our loveless days.
Reaching branches, sketched by
Dawn, break black and rise out of that
White and gray sea
Where farmers gather rivers
into veins to thin out
Our sorrows.

But those small connections have still not settled…

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Voices fall silent when the rain stops ,
Like you, inside your fortress, trembling
In the cold, yelling and
Making a mess.
But don’t you feel the warmth
Of the summer days?
Must I follow you with blankets and flowers?
I wish you’d come to me
On your own….
But those small connections
Have still not settled
And we’re alone,
Not in separation, but waiting, side by side
In stations, filthy with discarded paper bags,
For someone…a train,or a ticket master..or perhaps
Just a flightless pigeon,
to slow down and cross
our crooked paths ..

The keen rhythm of islands

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There is silence and there is empty talk.
The keen rhythm of islands.
Disagreeing. Accepting, but quietly,
muttering something else
Into pieces of old messy carpet.
Sometimes you need to be separate,
but you want to be the same,
Imagining yourself forgotten…
Like a shiny keepsake lost
In the rampage of guilt and secrets.
There is hardly laughter.
Only A quiet acceptance of each other,
While good intentions erode away…
Is that what it is?
Our love…nothing,
but a quiet movement Against
the wreckage of time?