Ever wielded, aside from the one stained in black?
Longing is our token, to betterment,
Away from the association of togetherness.
Like love, mistaken for a parasite,
Like loss, perceived to be foremost
A coming mile
Is not what we walk.
It only holds us to reap a new darkness
That is the one behind.
In arms, delicate and un-moving.
We are glass pieces, cutting flesh along the bone.
We are two mirrors, shattered against the other,
And no reflection is here, to comprehend what we once had.
Our love is no more, upon meadows now burned beneath the blue
Of a sky no longer comprehending the why.
Because, even God sees us, and He, too, weeps.