The Domestic

It looks beautiful. My fist in slow motion,
Your bones in reaction, my love in action.
It was wonderful till earth came calling.
My knee came up then you were falling.
This is pitiful, our love is violent,
Till sores wed bruises; then I repent.

We were perfect; we are perfect and yet
still one big mess. Your love, turned towel
Soaked with tears, a broken frame that Felt my wrath, from another violent yet
Blissful lust for my fist. Our lovely home just a victim of another domestic.




Faced with the sight of oblivion,
put in place by life’s cruel unveiling – showing how we are vulnerable.
We give monsters names and plots
then hand ourselves a focused purpose
to fight against forces that could care less
so our life seems less of a void space
when the hourglass has a pebble in place.
We create gods and monsters in our image
give them life above lack of meaning.
So we can live in some semblance of peace
avoiding the verse that goes like this;
“bleak futures make us grimace,
like dark corners make fire retrace,
the body shakes at death’s warm embrace,
the soul scurries from angst’s sweet grace.”