Middle Ground

where the grey line runs
between absolutes,
the flaccid middle ground
at the edge of which
the truth in the mirror
is a lie;

they shake hands and depart,
leaving a little of themselves,
leaving a little broken,
leaving a wave of guilt and shame
under the false glimmer
of yet another promise;

watch if your eyes will dare to see,
as pain trades with memory,
as want masquerades as need,
as love swallows a tear,
or two,
as truth nibbles at fear;

for the clouds flirting
with the nubile moon,
have long known
that she has secrets to hide,
why cry, they seem to call to me,
this is the way of the sky.

 

For the midweek prompt at Poets United: “compromise”