Broken line

In a nightgown she strolls
Across the sleepy living room
To his sleeping bag
In a village living the past
She is committing treason
Against the master of the house.

Invading the unshaven traveller space
She takes control of his heartbeat
Inside her she draws him deep
He drowns in her perfume
A blood line spilled, colors his thigh
With difficulty to breathe
They peel each other from each other
In horror staring at the broken tunnel
His sleeping bag.

The sleeping village
Is still sleeping
How can past living continue
With the broken borders
Of now?

April 19, 2017

About alaindesade

Novelist, songwriter and philosopher. Has special interest in human relations, evolution of mind, inter-cultural complications, and the concept of God.
This entry was posted in Adultery, Adulthood, Current events, International, Love Poems, Philosophy of Love, Philosophy of politics, Poetry, Psychology, Reflections, Religion and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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