APOCRYPHAL US

Today, I will no longer pretend to have wept,
nor further impose on squandering strides
with you as the buckle of forethought’s step;
the intricacy of faltering thoughts divides

my delicate opinions of you and your fears,
and the epitome of peace, of my meek survival.
A place which you made from singular tears.
The intimacy that you depart from your final

gift does nothing to sway – opinions of you –
the inevitability of words that may suffice
the textured, mumbles tumble that only spew
with thoughts of your ultimate sacrifice.

For today, I will not protest against your plea,
but wiping forced tears will never set us free.