poem

In sundown's grip, where shadows assemble,

A kinship bound — so sewn by trust's fine string,

However murmurs wind peacefully, sharp and sharp,

Also, petals tumble from sprouts once delicately track.

The heart, a stronghold, walls of trust raised,

Stands watch, yet disintegrates when truly cast,

A look, a grin, once esteemed and associated,

Changes to reverberations of an adoration outperformed.

What savage hand could set out to use such unfairness?

The blade drawn from hands once warm and valid,

A round of covers played somewhere down in bad form,

The rotting injury of adoration currently runs cockeyed.

With weighty heart, I stand in the midst of the ruin,

Where giggling moved, cold quiet rules alone,

Each commitment verbally expressed now an unpleasant aid,

A contract improved, thistles for the bone.

However in this evening, underneath the brilliant shroud,

Reflection blends, a clashing refrain,

For even in the void where bonds do fall flat,

Strength rises like a phoenix after the torment.

Past the hurt, an illustration holds up in shadows,

An opportunity to develop, to rise, and to excuse,

For trust, however delicate, sprout again from glades,

In each heart that considers cherishing and live.

Accordingly, disloyalty, clad in distress' attire,

Will not characterize the pith of our days,

For through the scars, our spirits figure out how to hold onto

An insight produced in preliminaries, not shows.

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