Never so far,
not so close.
The bonds of peace growing,
blooming in even gravity
to slim the fatted ego
and crack the emotions that lay stern.
The frank acceptance
of Ole pages,
stays within checkmating the tiff.
it spoke the words that didn’t exist,
and coated the red scar that healed,
blinded by selfish anticipations
and a solitude of amplified gore.
The cloud never released a tear
to support the complains
wrapped in the vexed truth,
or to war the angered lovebirds
and tear apart the lasted pain.
Goodbye; the word that could not be spelt,
yet the soul denied the fuss
and bathed itself with music.
Of all the love given;
this remains the old story…
©2016. Ruth Brodrick