They are, at start
The same
The dreams we oft forget

We are as two
The me
The you
The needs that course regret

They are entwined
The heart
The mind
A tension – tight corset

We are as flaws
With fangs
And claws
With wounds of war and yet

They are the same
The heat
The flame
The sun of morning set

The sound of those
Two hearts
Two souls
A sad and sweet quartet


About A. P. Christopher

I'm a cynic, a nihilist, and a pessimist. I'm a hermit filling the interior walls of my empty cavern with the words and pictures of a mind adrift in disparity. I also like lifting weights.
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