Like the finest sand to our footprints,
Love can betray us, implicitly,
Over the length of our tender advances.
I could speak to deafness,
Cry tears into an ocean of salt,
Die amongst countless headstones,
Hold a mirror to an echo
Over and again.
Yet nothing would advance–
As if the world had, unbeknowst to all,
Partitioned itself into movement
Until beauty frays
Revealing the weary soul unmistakeable.
This returns them:
We know how to mend
someone else’s broken heart.
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
Is it really sadder to lose something
than to have nothing?