it’s hard to dream alone again
after four years holding hands
yet dreams turned into quicksands
bittersweet taste of joy and pain
as I put both onto a scale
over and over through the years
with regret I’d proven my fears
content had never been more frail
this time there is no turning back
future and past jostle among them
from their tirades beginnings stem
colorful ones which I’ll paint black
the taste left in my mouth is dull
uncertainty absorbs all salt
I cannot tell who’s is the fault
as over endless thoughts I mull
perhaps no one’s at fault this time
probably doesn’t even matter
there’s no point in the chronic batter
mutually inflicted as we never chime
July 2020