There is a never in nothing. Perhaps,
that is why we breed and
build. Perhaps, that is why we
replace these palaces
with the something more
our mind conceives. Marble cliffs
and grander gardens. Color.
Texture. No such thing as a standard
gray. On a whim, let us rebuild
our arrival’s evidence.
Here is the face I wore, and there
is your body – deliciously
sweet. How we both loved, then,
the digressive meaning.
There are some things which never need
saying, like the thief who
reminds you again that he
has the gun – as if you could freely
move your stunned eyes anywhere.
© Diane Beaty
Please note: The poem in this post is my work, the accompanying photo is a clipart piece.
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