Dramatis Personae

I pretend to have emotion,
or, render these holes with
an elastic plastic filler, an
epoxy resin to resemble
the apostrophe that displaced
the empty seats within my soul,
I fill the empty glass
with nothing more than this,
or that, dried frozen goods
to dwindle past the tedium
of foreign memories, of another
you, who was little less than I, yet
each the same and nothing more, but
strained to wear this face again,
that face filed away with age
and the abstract trails we made in
those fields of meter high grass,
graded on the way to ever-last, tomorrow,
clipped at the knees of my sorrowful
friends in fearsome storms, and
mourning of the eyes I long
to share between the sheets of.
Not. Another. Love. Poem.
About regret and tenacious
redressed pride, the collapsed,
the stagnant, the hurtful crime,
that stripped these eyes for vultures
and long to be apologetic.
Not. Another. Love. Poem.
She cried into the windscreen
as the world rushed towards her,
until hearts bled with turmoil,
the gushing, frantic cascades.

  
© Phen Weston 2016

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