Whispers struggled out by the lisping of <br /> the hands are <br />not promises that shall be kept. <br /> <br />No breath exists upon your soul, <br /> it is vacant of emotion <br /> and absent of passion. <br /> <br />In truth, you do not manifest salvation. <br />Nor are <br /> you the living Body of Christ. <br /> <br />The taste of your communion is foul. <br /> It darkens the universe and <br /> is anathema to living. <br /> <br />Words spoken in bed are not contracts. <br /> The lie is easier to create than <br /> to live in truth. <br /> <br />We dangle sentences across the room <br /> at one another. <br /> They are empty sounds of defeat. <br /> <br />The past is some sort of mangled memory <br /> that confuses the present <br /> state of being. <br /> <br />I am not the channel of aggression. <br /> You are not permitted to define <br /> me as the source of all wrong. <br /> <br />Flavoured cough dropp melts on tongue. <br /> Books un-opened lie like accusations <br /> upon the floor of the heart. <br /> <br />Touching is just an excuse for not sharing. <br /> Skinless hands reminding me of <br /> delights now shadowed. <br /> <br />Someday the sun will shine in brilliance <br /> over a summer's day of adventure. <br />I want to be alive on that day.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/we-dangle-sentences/
