Puncture the Heart for Love, and Serve Lemonade

Make the hole bigger and circle it with the evidence of ignorance that is rife for naught. No matter what we do or say the space between us gapes out and weathers inward with the spirit of non-regret.

You take without receiving and give without parting. The evidence of camaraderie is strewn from old-school traditions that remain in place to stifle the screams of centuries past — that don’t speak the language of ordinance that once consoled us when the tears drowned our temperament.

This day and night when the world gawks with expectation — the affair at hand ends with the piercing of recognition for another who is fairer and dainty with the chandelier of acceptance that shines the light on why we could never be.

The golden goddess with the clouds of dust that channeled her steps as her bloated belly shined through the lighted strobes with assurance that she would be loved for the love she gave through verse and style — was reduced to a fairy on a wheel of habit that won’t be broken.

For the sake of love, puncture the heart with fierceness and a resounding joy that you have the power to equip us with anger as we watch the one become none.

Damage our pride as the darkened blood joins the crust of those who have been stood up by establishments — that pretend to be neutral but withdraw funds from the bank of dismal offerings that never attempt to hide the tragic realization that we will never be enough.

Never able to compete with the templates that dictate the temperature of endurance in the sense that steals from what we created from the mold and dew of the blackened sun that etched our skins when whips were too tired to amass the tyranny.

Never enough to shine as brightly as the stars that twirl on the litany of the catalogue that we formed from the sweat of a promise that when our day comes — we will overcome.

The heart is a delicate organ with the fire of desire encrypted with codes that don’t hide the massive attack that paralyzes the spirit of expectation.

The love affair began almost a year ago and it was perfectly celebrated under the hue of a lemon that didn’t have to be split to satisfy us.

Others came in and wanted to partake of the love of you and all you were willing to give and the space increased and our grip tightened — and still we believed in the measure of gravity.

It all ended with them. The betrayal left you in the sourness of what we always return to when we grapple in the dark for the switch that restores us to the settings of reality and the quality of rising above.

The heart bleeds out and still we rise. The heart bleeds and still maintains its shape. The heart bleeds and still she smiles as she watches the lesser become bigger.

Puncture the heart and make the people tend to the wounds with a dash of Lemonade as the soldiers retract their allegiance to such beauty.

When the thirst for what was and has been inclines — pour the ingredient and let it overflow and then allow the pores to heal into the heat of passionate rejection and simmer into the womanhood that can’t be lightened with the fairness of the ages.

When they ask for the secret of your glow and glorified disposition — serve Lemonade and remain silent.

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