And finally, the impasse
We reach, with such impossible brilliance
And our broken bodies, over two decades in the making
Almost half together
Lay now bare before unveiled eyes
We bend, but do not break
So it was written in the vows of our forbearers,
Shoulders bearing what only the impossible weight of uncertain future can break
We are alike, and yet not
bound but not broken
Milk left on the table
Too long, curdling, sour smelling, indigestible
Shoved back in the fridge.
Before the rot can permeate the family
A gamble, by whose hand?
Who put it back?
Slammed, shoved, forced
A force to be reckoned with
We will not break
You wound me.
And yet every strike, a testament
To one I've dealt you
Each and everyone agreeable
In some sense, rational.
On the basis of why and cyclical nature
When we stared at eachother
Obstructed by the Cookeville auditorium's lofty roof, trestled on pillars of all your regrets
Our promises were true.
Though mortals never knew
It's easy to say this thinking on age and scope and cycle after happenstance.
We could never have known.
Cast our dice against
Cynicism and statistics and addicts
And all that would bring us white picket fences.
We would build our own
And we might have.
If not for our broken bodies
Cracked beneath uncertain future's daunting mass
And so did they, too.
Mortals never knew
But as I said, our promises were true.
The vows that bound them
We tread to speak
Maybe we will if not in naming
If this is the true blessed matrimony
Fitting broken peices together, only to bend and break and fit and bend and break and fit and bend and break again
I have seen enough to live with it
To be happy in the small moments
A splash of milk in my morning coffee