Friday, December 16, 2016

Victims, a poem


I had convinced myself I cared
but she knew better. We are always
the first victims of our seductions.
How else could we carry on?

For her, I counted the stars. Did she
believe my tally? I did; every
time, I did, even though
it never came out quite the same.

In the dark, her breathing told
me lies. If only I could sleep
they might come true. The ceiling
mocked me as I turned again.

Victims of the moon and stars,
and of each other, we shall make
believe as long as necessary.
How else could we carry on?

Stephen Brooke ©2016

Yeah, it's a poem and maybe on the edge of overblown. Or maybe it went over the edge. I don't know.

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