He’ll show her more of why he is shattered of soul
Bare his teeth and pick at old wounds, his and hers, a sick and twisted savage cycle
Round and round and round it goes
where it stops nobody knows

He moved back in bringing with him more than just baggage
Fists that know only anger
Sowed into the fabric of her consciousness
The sun sizzled and baked the pumpkin patch. They  are armed with smiles – no one keeping score

But behind closed doors

All is as before. An imperfect circle and nothing more

Copyright John de Gruyther 2017


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