Making sense

I sit still in the pockets of stillness

holding delicately the errant heart

suspended between
the harsh and loud crashing waves of accusations

mulling over the razor-sharp words

and the wounds left on my wrists

inverted query marks that question your maps

of which way the relationship should head

cynical assertions mock simplistic way of looking at life

my views are like a lost alphabet alone and adrift

in the vast seas of sardonic know-allism

now when I look back at that naive, gullible person

I wonder was that really me?

My crumbling thoughts are doctored to sync with others’

the debris of such thinking falls in undulating patterns

it is a miracle that still some sense can be made

of the free-flowing bonds that keep us tied to each other

our silence often embellished with pregnant pauses

But where others see potential of emptiness

I see an ocean of…