4-Track Demons

We’ll never let
love complicate
our situation.

Integrity
compromised
infects imagination.

Last refuge
of the uncreative,
rationality

seems a prison
when love’s wanted
and freely given.

Haunted, loss
looming like tape
un-wheeled

from cassettes
characterizes
our conversation.

Something once
desired blushes,
bled since beyond

reparation.
Somehow, simple
glances sharpen

focus; sun
washes off oceans
of emotion.

Polaroid skies
fill the hole our void
left, needing to cry.