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~Little Slipping Secrets


Of smooth stone and reason,
on the blind battlefield of love;
to kill rhyme out of season–

naked hands inside a glove.

Verbal bombs, hurled like cannon fire,
as little slipping secrets ricochet around.
To pre-prepare for a funeral pyre–

Who allows love to die without a sound?

To cover up trails they’d forged together,
as the bread crumbs turn to crouton.
All the verbs have flown due to cold weather–

and I looked up to see you were gone.

So I stepped up to the sharpest edge of the sea,
I searched the reflection and it was just me…
Why did I tell her I felt I was in prison?–

I never really thought that she’d set me free.