The revering blind
hold on to a recurring fantasy
of having their tangible bonds
melted down,
in the crimson gold foliage
then eke out what little awe is left
in its late fragrance.
A final fall,
in twos,
from a greater height
than the relentless respite
of a half-truth
lost to the nocturnal abyss
of a bruised mind,
broken and shattered  
into the moonlight-
an unquiet riot
ravaging  the still heaviness
pouring down
in plain sight...with no need
for footnotes
I’m holding  my own breath
to restore the balance of  faith
while under the same oath.
After and before thoughts
become bolder than the pretend vows
and repaired wrong-doings
we have learned to savor
with the packed lying 
of hope.

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