Lost in the Days

Affection will sacrifice itself
in a world of hurry--to swim
here is murder; a lover's
breath--the quickness of
sandy-splits.

If you trust, you will sink
like winter hope, drown into
soil, to night, to nothing.

Where warmth will not drape
duplicity, and broad are the
trees that have fallen
in the hours.

Left behind are justifications
in mid-light, split between
moon and sun, blackened into
belief, lost in the days.