Things You Discover

It isn’t the flimsy certificate that binds us,
isn’t the words of the priest
who tied the knots around our wrists
and marked our faces with ash and blood.
Bound by the old ways,
what holds us together can’t be undone
by a man in a black bathrobe
with a powdered wig,
no matter how loud he pounds his wooden hammer.
If I pull this ring off my finger,
we’re still connected, you and I,
by filaments made of each silver word we said,
each golden moment we shared.
The mettle of our marriage was tested in its own forge.
Don’t hold back;
with your raw ambition and my naked willingness,
we’ll conquer all.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.