Our Bloody Rows

Our bloody rows, our confrontations,
these contretemps of contristation
a cry of endless separation.

My petulance, naive neglect,
a failed attempt to genuflect
an innate shying from romantics
a baffled refuge in semantics

So let us stop our co-distressing
and set upon a deliquescing
instead of fatally regressing

To looking in the Chamber pot
there's nothing there but blood and rot
a confluence of what we're not

We are the it, the who, the why
and I love you and you love I.

Petulant Riskingham