This tempest of words,
I have forgotten all the others,
has stirred a foam that came to your lips,
as to my face,
reddened by the flood of anger and the quiet coming of tears,
an ageless dance of anger unleashed at insignificance,
releasing torrent flood of salt within
that is it's own significance.
There in this quiet space between eternities,
you threaten that this time is our last,
that you cannot bear the with holding that binds
me thus to you and so in this to then.
I cannot forget the other times,
so easily as to deny,
that it is a bitter fruit that is torn by the teeth of conflict,
and the lips absorb in the taste of torment.
So I stand and whimper, my composure fallen in fallen apart,
while you glow with that flower of ripe rage,
your muscles tense not to strike,
but to refrain from it.
To each time there is a season,
for everything under heaven.
So often you have said so,
and I have focused upon the words you would live by,
and have me live by.
To each thing there is a time.
A time to weep is now come and come upon me.
And I am taken by it.
You catch me before I fall,
in this I am fallen,
a fallen woman,
the season of fall.
To fall for you at once and again,
into arms that now hold help not harm.
In them I am comforted,
melting into their embrace.
To each thing there is a time,
I am taken by it, and by you.
That glow of union coming with finally
a light so tender that it is so utterly thine own.
The tears, like stars, are scattered,
and now flicker out with the warming of the east.