Pox Rot of the Eye (We Often Wed Our Hearts to Hurt)

Most Nights: permanent rings about the eyes

It makes no difference why—but—the pit of us is

Eye-opening chasms, of wit, of wagers made; my

Polished art of forgetting her


Wasted Talent: drinking till the eyes are dry

Hours soiled, hairs broken or made to look tussled

My eyes are ribbed and red, from protecting insides

Biting, trapped-trigger that breeds held-hands


They Bite: dug and scoured friends

Left nothing but left-over chances, forgot

Near where I live—these days, we trade blades

Hear but only the stabbed glances, hurt our knees


Wake Up: mornings with glue in my eyes

Blood in my veins; I lay caustic—hope, bitterness

Anger of change, how distorted is life?

Made me a caricature of pain


Sad Puppet: romance—on a shelf

Better yet, let it burn; a grill for Valentine

Write pretty words and bury the ugly, deep

I dare to go; a wish for fear to write itself


Anyway, most days, that is how it goes (the words write themselves).


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