Struck to Resignation

It is not the bruises themselves
Which so appall and flake my sense
Of where I end and you begin.
I can stand their black pinch, blue fringe,
And deep soaked stain of dark intent.
The tender skin, stubble dotted
And sore to touch, is just a shell;
Scraped paint will not affect engines.

It is not the furious wind
With which you blast my youth-dreamt buds
That turns the garden so barren.
Topsoil scatters, too true no doubt,
After petals have fled from home,
But buried seeds sleep off seasons
Until a call perennial
Musters the stems from memory.

It is the glare behind your eyes,
That dark denial of mean force,
Which strafes me even as you leave.
Disclaimers of accidentals
Do not absolve malicious crimes
Strung along behind blank facades.
Could I wreak only half your hate
Back to you again, I do not
Think I would, though some say I should.

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