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Monday, April 6, 2015


My friend suggested the word, tryst, for my next poem. Here it is:


“O, why don't you trust me?”
The young man asks me:
A handsome young man,
A powerful young man,
The young man who loves me.
I look into his eyes:
Piercing, intense,
Imploring brown eyes.
My own reflection,
In those pained brown eyes.
I look around;
A garden of shadows,
Of noisy crickets,
And buzzing mosquitos.
“This tryst is our last.”
I say softly, as guilt fills me:
The guilt of resignation
The guilt of dread
The guilt of love.

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