Monday, September 7, 2009


Her love is like the child
That was never born,
Gone before first breath,
Dead before the words
Could dare leave her lips,
Torn apart in the chaos,
The carnage of her heart.

Her love is like the flower
Nipped before first bloom,
Lost before the petals
Would dare break free
And show the world
Their boldness and beauty,
Their fire of color.

Her love is like the fortress,
Guarded by stone and steel,
With weapons imposing their might
And soldiers ready to attack,
Forbidding anyone from entry
And any emotions from escaping.
Her love was invincible.

Yet the kiss of his arrival
Shattered the stone of her spirit,
Seared her heart in the flashes of flames,
Consumed the recesses of her existence,
Tortured her worse than the Spanish had dreamed,
And slaughtered the last of her defenders,
Leaving her in the wake of catastrophe.

It was this kiss,
This tender touch of lip to lip,
The smell of soap and taste of mint,
The slight embrace of hands and waist,
That destroyed her heart,
Cut down her guard,
And saved her soul.

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