Holding true to the last fibre
Not a part of the yarn
left to lay bare
Destiny and fate as if were
some tyrant one need bow down to
or kowtow till the end
A slight deviation from the plot,
a mild improvisation of the soliloquy
going on and on in each head,
a tender sprinkle of smile
or a truly felt 'sorry' would as if
anger the behemoth overseeing
this tiny little conjugal fare
which has, as if on order,
gone sour
- sweet milk long curdled by the Australian summer
- just waiting to be saved from further putreal
- waiting to be saved from itself
Can being warm be so detrimental
to the coldness of fate
that each marriage need slip into unawares
after two, twelve or twenty years?
Is there no cure to this antithesis of love
that annihilates
the last remains of its nemesis
leaving no trace
that love even did walk these lanes
or did exist, ever?
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