By Jean Bush
He,
Floating on a sea of green.
Drowning in delight;
A maelstrom full of promises
And death.
She,
Drifting through an endless black.
Smothered in a warm, velvet night;
A dark tunnel of desire
And doom.
Down,
Down,
Down, they fell;
Down past clowns with swords
To cut and slash the innocent. Down past hope and dreams,
Until they reached the bottom, where they lay still,
Pierced on the sharp rocks of disappointment.
And the Imps of Impulse came forth with chains
And bound them together.
And the eyes of them, the green and the black,
Filled with tears,
And they called it love.
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