I know I've
tossed my heart
in brackish cesspools
trying to resurect
the dead thing we
abused; as if our
finite failures
might finally be
amended, even
as our dreams
descend like
carrion in cruel
and hellish runes.
Perhaps if we'd been
lovers as the fates
commanded, our
souls knit with
bonds more
even handed,
the distance drawn
on maps in miles;
not scarred phrenologies
in slender smiles.
If beauty had
been ours to smooth
rough wonders
onto pallets only
flesh could paint,
if we'd held
a child and lust
been love as
we'd begun to span
that sullen gulf's bright blade;
would indifferent stars
have deemed us lovers,
had our divine near miss
not twisted fate?
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