I wash my hands, but they aren't clean, I forgive love for being so mean, I strengthen myself so that I may wean...
Praising the days that aren't an attack, longing for the indication of slack, hanging a heavy heart back on its rack...
Keeping pure ideas afloat, doing my best not to dig a moat, praying I no longer eat their lies like a goat, yet this grief I will always tote...
But the obscure has become mature and the pain of my heart a guided tour and I know it will trample on me some more.
I look straight ahead, at the ceiling because I'm in bed, her words scrolling like credits in my head, my love a whole river flowing red...
I wonder are her actions kidred mine, I wonder does her grief ferment like wine, although it would offer no stability to my spine, it's still in Hell where we are scheduled to dine...
©pcmanpat
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