There is a fragile word between us,
Wavering between faith and fear.
Between russet eyes
And starless skies,
It is speared upon our diffidence.

We asphyxiate ourselves
To insure our word
finds no breath,
For we have yet
to grow the ears to endure it.
We cut off our hands
To insure our word
Finds no action,
For we have yet
to grow in conception.

There is a fragile word,
Cracking between impulse and reason.
Between leather bound sheets
And black ink,
It is fixed with flippant strings: a key stung on a silver chain.

“The ocean never was so calm,” we say--
And so go forth our word;
biding upon green tides
within glass eyes--
A soulful distraction it may subside in,
With all tension appeased.

There is a fragile word,
Choking at the back of our thoughts-- at the back of our throats,
Somewhere dangling between the void of our ambition,
Trembling where our flesh meets.
Without sanctuary, it must tread upon our security.

But what of the sea?
The day will come,
Where she’ll give up her dead.
Between obsidian surf and child’s play,
The fragile word will find sand again.

There is a fragile word between us,
Bleeding between caution and desire.
A simple bud plucked before its season,
So you bind our love; a flower,
Crushed between your pages.

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