He is tortured duality,
eyes glistening vacantly,
lips parted callously,
self-inflicted amnesia
from words spoken previously;
ever-empty,
he used to be family,
one I sought fruitlessly
love me with purity;
a long-winded fantasy,
naive imagining
charming his way into hearts
of the frail,
undefended attachment,
blinded by veils
promises spoken,
secrets untold,
filthy webs, decay and mold;
don’t think to speak freely,
calm winds of new hope,
seize the moment to leave
like a raft or a rope,
leave the ripples in water,
cleanse body and soul,
of residual thirst,
unquenched by the salt.
Emily Cloward ©
