The moon exposed a Winter lie
across the mirrored-face of water silent.
They skirted along the banks of sin,
their feet careful not to drown in love.
There were crackles in home fires burning,
but missing pulses stole the warmth.
Empty beds waited for turning keys,
and soft steps shushing loose-lip floors.
Darkness brooded from thought to rage,
woven in schemes with alibi threads;
the last kiss of a Winter lie,
forever cold in pondweed arms.
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3 comments:
This is an amazing poem! I don't recall ever reading it. You packed so much into a seemingly effortless write. Good job, Pat!
Ah, alas the memory fades. It used to be titled "Missing Pulses". Only changed a couple of lines in the poem, though. Sweet memory, you were once a stalwart ally, now, a fog that chills the empty chambers of my mind!
very nice -- a lot said
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