was turquoise sheets stained
beneath quilted vows—
darkling, violet storm.
Remember, there, the foothills
cast our wedding rings in the flames,
feral in the cunning rain.
While our heart glowed, the water
gurgled into the sylvan hills.
We wet our lips with desperate
tongues of sacred candles,
only to burn mundane fingers
in quotidian wax.
Soon the hills fell dark under uxorial clouds.
The sieving foundation shifted and cracked,
until an underground river ran right through,
and into the sky we parted.
Nice, leaves room for thought.
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Wow, Robert, what great imagery!
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You're a genius!
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