What worlds we have created,
like giving birth, but not to babes;
to swirls of light, and fractured darkness.

It is as husband,
it is as wife,

To create these storms of color.

And my heart is,
torn. In pieces,
torn. In tatters; forlorn.

In the folding in
of our creative blur,
where continents collide,

A clash of emotions stirs;

And I am not to talk about this hurt.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *