Disarming
the color of treachery,
shone bright, effusive
under the guise of friendship:
the promise of daybreak or the dusk of praise--
it leaves love flowing unguided and exposed,
bare to the tearing rocks of another's whimsy,
lost to the course of chance encounters,
tossed to the shadows of bitter abandonment
when a better offer begs a truer line,
when ego attempts to heal.

 

Such is the action of a non-bridging soul,
one that sees itself not of community,
but of a delusional beacon:
the call of tumbling water crisp scree,
the wink of fleeting brotherhood
that pink and turquoise and orange secures
not primary, but synchronic.

 

We can travel along this path supplicant
until sun or moon tell,
or we can remain in the dusky waste of
transition,
feigning bonds and doing no exact work
to identify mutual goals:
our own lips pursed above parental reflection,
trust can never come without sipping the water.