It seemed a passing flight
This thing called love…
The kind that only
Shallow water can mirror.
Forgive the chuckle that
Escapes my guarded throat;
Your chains of thought
After thought after thought
Comes tumbling out of
Your inflatable cave
And I cannot help but
Unleash the irony of it all
In a mirthless chime.
You speak the common tongue,
But, unless I must be wrong,
Your ears have chosen
To hear what was never said.
See the puddle of your madness
Pooling quietly on the ground—
A spoon could easily hold
Your phases mirrored there.