Arthron

Saturday Asides: A Weekly Presentation of Poetry and Prose

Arthron

Four years buried—
no grass yet grows.
She calls out in pictures,
and in old sweet nothings spent just for me:
milk and sugar for the bitter black.
Her love endured against all torment.
My quiet anguish leaves her ground grazed bare.

I am a ghost like her—
four years passed
a story almost completely overgrown.
Tall tales of honesty gave rise to a virtue,
long ago.  Until no secrets could be between us.
All was naked truth: our culminating fruition of folly.

It seems a fool was raised,
too slow to reconcile 
the value of a secret held sacred:
to cover the crimes and spare them these symptoms.
Let all words be possessed by a basking light 
of untarnished naivety within the fleshly call.
Better to be called false
than to not be called at all.

Your world and I remain riven.
Great bridges are built high 
across what's most often just a trickle—
lest comes the storm.
All banks are uncrossed
as long as the bearer's life flows.
The promised land forever remains 
another.