Darkness in the tangled roots
of a family tree.
Where the blood to sustain them flows,
neither good or bad,
but dark and love tainted.
A lair where lives are lost
in flyspecked frames and baubles
on a plaster shelf.
An altar to a self that never existed.
Kitchen emits a breath of pigsties
and winter mudded fields.
Poverty of spirit and pocket.
Above it all the cloying stench
of wanting hearts and desperation.
Love, a dance,
a waltz of hugs and dares.
Forcing warmth in arms that clibng
to songs of children.
Disappointment in earnest eyes,
that know only the honesty
sung from lips of gods,
in sweet love inflicted lies.
– Dave Kavanagh.
The damage we cause in the name of tainted love.