Diminished seductions plague the earnest lover. In tepid repetitions of colors long ago faded. He imagines her broken. Devastated. What else could she be? Because that is what he believes true love demands. A little bit of ego too perhaps. In her protest she confides in him that she prefers the pieces. But has no trouble assembling them.
In her thoughts when memoory insists there are indeed the hounds. And the fox that flees from them. But it's not a hunt so much as a it is a cermony.
The only thing I lost was the need to keep running.
Monday
12/04/2006 11:37:00 PM
| Life Poems |