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By coujeaux Date: 2005 Jun 27 Comment on this Work [[2005.06.27.12.23.344]] |
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Procession; remnants eyedancing, our artifacts lone tribute existent I was allowed to inter, Across from me she fitfully slept, contrasting vigil I kept that a conscience refused to defer. You live, my love, I thought, stroking her cheek with newfound restraint; my fault, I'm sure, Credit due, 'twas all you, but different hands, different demands, what of ours would endure? Not the child, I know, for nothing with legacy will you dare tow forward; others bury the dead, 'Tis efficient, I presume, to convert unwilling wombs into walking tombs as homage instead. Fait accompli, at last did she opt to inquire of my opinions; words, for once, evaded my need, As she gauged my face for some hint of reaction her own betrayed some regret for this deed. Of course she had right to choose, it was never my issue to accept or refuse, merely to know, Not wishing her to hide something so important to decide; merely courtesy I wish she'd show. Past her litany of rationalizations, excuses, explanations and apologies, I only asked her why, All of these things you say to me are meaningless now and this cannot be undone by you or I. Women, run you not from the men who stand accountable; perhaps you might wish them near, We are berated for so many things we seem unable to say but moreso for what we cannot hear. Of language, our tongues are brusque, often severe, sharp instruments we wield without regard, For gentle companions we're blessed to have accompany us yet force an ever-constant en garde. And my lady, this blossom, cleaved two souls from her path with a swift, silent motion; cut in two, At last we've succeeded in separating what always reunited us and I am the executioner, not you. |