Three sides to every story
In the calm spaces of thump ripples
three gossamer shadows gather,
each a whisper of what once was,
three stories spilled,
but which is true?
The first speaks of love,
its tender seed sown,
nurtured in a guffaw,
but fear grew wild,
a vine gripping heartstrings,
dimming the sunlight of shared days.
The second, a tide of maim,
pulls memories like driftwood,
twisting truth into knots,
the biting bitterness beckons
where sweetness silently soared,
peril paints a symphony of scorn.
And then, there lingers a lull
a third tale, temptingly untouched by time
teeming with the tension of absence
where shadows dance chaotically,
and the heart aches for gasping,
but the pages remain unwritten.
Oh, how views can splinter like shards!
in this kaleidoscope of shores,
some forget the bridges,
prefer to carve their own,
with axes of anger,
overlooking the opulent warmth
within the walls that welcomed them.
Beneath the fabric of any fray
cradles the gentle shell of dreams
every edge an enigmatic element
lingering in the loss,
but those who stow away the shards
miss the beauty of the mosaic.
We of the human chase—
strolling through a flawed frontier—
drift like delicate dew,
dancing and dissolving
never quite catching a glimpse,
of how one heart
pulses in utopian synergy with another.
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