We must not keep doing
this. The words spill slowly,
with my hand in your hair,
in some lost restaurant
sixty miles from nowhere.
We must not keep doing
such damage to ourselves,
and those we love. The lift
our souls gained at the start
has turned into a gift
we must not keep. Doing
anything together
now holds our life in thrall
to fear, muscles clenched for
the axe we know will fall.
We must not keep doing
this, dear friend. For freedom’s
found not in what we choose,
but rather in the good
we at the last refuse.
A monchielle, written for a friend in a long-distant cafe.
To share with friends at the dVerse Poet's Pub.
