Two tales,
one defeat
at the silence
of one careless heartbeat.
Twistedness, and draining
into discoloration. Our fever
soared for temperatures,
uneven. We let
our shade get faltered,
becoming halfway
with light and dark.
Two eyes, sightless,
needing their contacts
of other angels,
of those who are
branding footsteps –
the ones we
kept hearing
to keep calling
our namesake,
our sanctity.
Being footsteps, of the
hundred miles when we
were wandering, living for
another decorated instance.
Becoming footprints,
that have returned
into memorable minutes,
hours, and leftovers
of rotting years.
Precious rose, I can
keep forcing blood-flow.
Or I can cease
the next urge, to release
our hearts into the sunrise,
choosing to not set,
nor settle our forms
into the same nest
of venomous thorns.