perch of solitude

Only with heavy weights on our eyelids,

Do we sit on wooden benches,

and contemplate our lives

Cardboard spirals carry a heavy burden to our lungs,

burning the very tissue we need to live

"You're a broken man,"

or so you've been told,

by the lover,

who knows not of the struggles she folds

She already knew,

Before a word had been uttered,

the very pain,

you spoke in shallow mutters

washed away the dirt of a thousand words,

brushed easily away with a soft three word sonnet,

or so it felt, to the bench ridden man.