If I could count the infinity of you
I’d place each second within your soul,
and lay my breath between the stars
that form your heart and whole.
Was it privilege to love you?
Painted hues of viridescent lives
to those lost seconds when we saw
the world begin again in strides.
Lived in promises reconsidered by death
and blues. Do you know I was forged of you?
The collage of unnumbered lines,
the lithesome stranger redefined
in dawns of lithium dwam and dew,
the twinkles of lost cosmic youth.

We watch the world behind monolith eyes,
each turning page that falls apart
and loses ink to emotive tears,
knowing that I could never write with conviction
because I never gave my heart
to more than contradiction.
But, doesn’t depth produce the soul?

© Phen Weston, 2015.

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