Distant cups of love had always been waiting…
willing and able to covet me.
Still, the fortress is pre-made.
A limb from a different kind of loyalty.
Erected of stick and stone.
Embedded upon a ‘last supper’ divided amid…
‘you are on your own.’
I cannot easily locate a trace of love’s loyalty…
higher than embankments shrouded in hypocrisy.
Perhaps…
Perhaps, it sets higher in the broken branch of just one tree.
