Becoming


The ghost of you still enchants
the ancient ruins of my soul.
I cannot stop it;
I cannot help it.
As we falter this
will be our deformity-
an ever thinning love.
I am uncollected liquid sorrow.
Today's mysteries, unsolved tomorrow,
as love decays from clay to dust-
dust which rose to smoke the sun.
Between tremors of consciousness
and a ripple of genuine angst,
a monument of unchanged things,
we become a timing tragedy.
Still in my befuddled mind,
among the random terror,=
comes to ripen your smile.
What we believe no longer matters,
until sacred valor pushes to a head-
and with some cosmic luck, we might instead
for just a spell rely on happiness.

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