Discourse II (Aftermath)

I remember your hands upon my neck
The only time it felt real
As we splintered the final pieces
Everything in pieces
At our bare feet
Again and again
Until the sweat was finally salt enough
For the wounds
And finally we swallowed that ocean
Finding the salt that christened it
Still nothing extending beyond the wall
Of lungs and skinBut courage enough
To rail against that penultimate concrete
Not in anger
Not in hope
Only a tribute offered up

To a futility finally acknowledged
The last of what remained
Left in that empty stairwell
Something intoxicatingly sweet
In that nihilistic abandon
And a final freedom to realize
That sad poems do not rhyme.