Tornness [sonnet]
Being apart is what tears us apart
and torn apart we spill ourselves to earth.
Kicking below on the ground broken hearts;
forgotten is the price that true love’s worth.
As ripped and shredded clothing flew around
disguises then emerged among the rags;
while masquerades which camouflage rebound
and in our hands were posies and white flags.
But even though that desolation reigned
for such brief time as our fool flesh allowed
continuance was never foreordained —
to tear us more we quickly disavowed.
If we will now abandon all our fears
the tornness of our love will heal through tears.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 