adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, April 01, 2017

Real, a poem

Real

Love is no more than a word;
I can not hold it in my arms
as I might hold you.

Nor can faith be peeled like an orange,
broken into sections, the juice
seeping sticky through my fingers.

I have tried to live in the towers
we construct. There is no
solid footing at their top.

There is no shelter within their walls.
Love is no more than a word;
You and I, we are real.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

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