Eight Years, Or the Solitude of Souls

Emergent detachments withdrew along the aching highways,
A signal through those imprecise replies to become old days
In downpours that last for epochs outside our pictures,
Locked in patterns that echo mistakes, becoming fixtures,
Do you remember the ecstasy of holding each other that night?
Wrapped in mortal sheets of love within the green man’s sight?

We each tenderly held our world within a grain of sand,
Each hour ticking away to infinite trice, and eternity stands
Alone against the clandestine oaths of another latent lament,
Paramours spiked through destiny for our own alternative intent,
How I loved you with every folly that bore my soul to witness
My own disgrace in your eyes, the truth becomes groundless,

We turned to murder of empathy in equal measure and triviality,
The dust between our sleeping souls remained forgotten unforgettably,
Lost in years you will not look back promiscuously upon,
And I revisit through age that last incessantly, each chambered caisson
Holds nothing for either, but the decayed air of regret,
The soulless marionette, filling time on a broken cassette,

In your world I never featured as more than a cameo of betrayal,
The elicit improvised passion of a youthful entreaty for abnormal
Errors in disinfected wounds, another face to loathe and hate,
Yet you, you define the fragments that made a man, replaced his fate
With phaenomena that cannot condemn faults of the heart,
The cardiac arrhythmia suspended within each line of his art.

The words I write all come back to you, the chaos and beauty
Unify to form the unforeseen truth within my hearts apathy,
Eight years pass in blinding scarlet infinitude
Drowning in the waters of our endless forgotten prelude,
To the atonement distorted in times wake, waiting overdue,
And the words I write for love all come back to you…


© Phen Weston 2015


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