Such thresholds that we dwell between,
laying open the relationship
of man and woman; husband, wife, mother, son.
And the consequence of love, that it may never be enough;
that we simply have too much to give, it flows into another.
Friendships build, old flames burn
in our fragile state of youth
(that we never seem to leave)
we deflect the questions until after;
forget-me-not’s, and lovers spurned;
seeds reaped and sown, bridges built and burned.
So keen are we, on the richness of spirit
to write it off as mere collateral;
a shrug, a thought, and then it’s gone.
That we, like Time, go marching on;
children of that simple god.
Against him, we race
to bring beauty, reign in chaos;
affording care due such savage gardens.
The danger in our passion, we never see
the blood, sweat, toil
left behind to bring a single stem
to blossom, our lineage thus remembered
by the frenzied drive to destiny;
the journey left to creep, a shadow
seeding the vines which blight our sanctuary.

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Cory Garcia

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