A poem #92 – Our nightly song

The things unsaid
as we lay in the bed
between the delicate knowings
of right and wrong.
Feelings reborn,
leaving us torn
but not as one.

Dream’s liquid displaced
steeped and disgraced,
forlorn under our
moonlit tongue.
In silence we fight
wordless in our plight,
in loveless turns
against the fabric of our nightly song.

Though, waves maybe lapping
as she is now sleeping,
the storm
is yet to come.
Once gentle tones
the steel quietly hones,
her syllables sharpening, in wait,
against the rasp of her tongue.

On eggshells we tread
as we lay in the bed:
constituent parts
of a broken sum.
This marriage scorned,
too hastily mourned.
Our shame is so evident
in the light of the morning come.

JP Collins


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