Twenty Years of Marriage, or is it Thirty?

There's always this turn in the silence. I hate it.
The righteous fruit, the ripe, red anger, softening,
Rotting, slowly becoming remorse. Now, of course,
I must say that I'm sorry. I'm not. I'm not!
Nevertheless, for the sake of whatever is left of
Our love, I will grovel, and she will decide to forgive
Me. The heat will be gone, the fruit discarded,
Our arbor made barren again.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 21 times
Written on 2011-01-09 at 13:30

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