The Silence At The End Of A Marriage
The floor is slick with the blood of green ideas,
murdered last night in their furious sleep
while those of us on the dance floor begged, Please,
a colorless song to claim as our own! And keep
those caged and naked echoes of desire
hanging high above us, where they're safe.
The killers have not fled: They hang you higher,
and their eyes on you are tight enough to chafe
the tender skin you wouldn't know you had
except that they have wrapped you in their gaze.
Paralysis-they insist it's in your head,
and you believe them-infiltrates your days
and you live your nights in dreams of failed escape.
That's you: a failure dreaming sleepless of escape.
Rich Newman
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