Not the Way It Should Be

It's not enough to love
When love is a many-splendored
Parasite, the copious excess
Of emotion spilled like blood
Across the crime scene
Of a late night diner.
The only witnesses were those
Who no longer see the world
In victimized allegory,
Their shirt collars turned up
To hide the wounds on their necks.
And we think that our saving grace
Is bottled in the affections
We spewed out for one another
Beneath the stars
Stretched out to hold us
In our own self-cacophonic
Failure. The only thing
That can bring us down
Is ourselves, when our only
Comfort is our selfs.
Just the petrified alimony
Of living; just the scars
That allege our mortality;
Just the knee-harkening
Sky at dusk cradled
In our lucred palms.

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