Entwine,
I ryhme
a word like vine
flowering a flower
on every line
forming to fruit
found from the root
of every thought
of my mind

I have, I have
161
then I am done
ready to be born
poems not on paper
digital drafts cannot be torn
awaiting patiently my pity
awakening awkwardly my flaws
flippantly pop pops
my plop drops
and splatters
ink on the floor

you cried all the summer rain
and howled the winter moon
along you sung a spring of sad
and played an autumn solemn tune
years of tears left seasons dry
a drought of death you bloom
mountains of fountains
of clouds in your eye
rained our storm and doom

when every unsaid is spoken
you lose that light in your eye
where the carefully carried is broken
and the boundless could be untied
when every apology is a memory
that forges forgiveness like a yoke
we forget to laugh ourselves freely
and every lie becomes a joke
our feet are forced for parting
on a path paved for pain
the bend behind dissolving
even, if we desired
to turn around again.