So what ends here is the mend of recklessness.

We could talk as persons from unreasoned reasoned: lovers.

Each a sword, parrying

betrayal with

cloak seduced naked

tears through sweat

cloak seduced naked

tears through sweat

our grief and joys becoming each other

without vision, hope, with despair chanting

its left hand litany or its thunderless rain

after a great pain. Our bond is a child of Darfur

growing with death: the stench of rot and forgetfulness---

no feelings for the child or for the "us".

Remember when we spent the night in the trenches?

Our night we declared our faith

behind us, with us  and perhaps beyond us?

When is recklessness greater then hope?

In touching your fingers, could we

be the ones without this hellish passion, so

we could live in détente and comfort?

This mend of recklessness within silent wars

of us and without us is not mirrors.

Swords as love parry and thrust;

mirrors as love recollect images from our past

into my present eyes with no mendacity.

Yet swords unlike love does not take

responsibility for reflecting their pain on others.

Where does the thrill of our sword stop

so it does not become the balm for ordinariness

or orderliness? Perhaps the simple touch without a charge

to or hold can be the answer , perhaps

a simple deterrence called yes and no.

As swords is replaced by the parable of mirrors

thus finding our answers:

responsibility of not reflecting pain upon our loves

but mending ourselves for the sake od the other.

Yet swords unlike love