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.