Two Poems - 'Words' and 'Monument'

Words

Petals of sound fall soft against the skin,
Their meanings unimportant in the dark,
Muffled by sheets, breathed against another,
The Beloved,
They indicate a closeness throughout time,
So different from the vows that sealed their love.
Those words formal, echoing the clergyman's speech.
Not these.
In these shadowy promises, a love is nurtured that may endure through decades.

Temptations of sound glide against his skin,
Promising something he no longer feels inside his home.
She'll never know.
Besides, he deserves appreciation after everything he's done.
He works so hard.
She never appreciates him anymore.
After all these years,
He chooses to forget the vows he said,
And justifies his actions to himself through his own selfishness.

Blades of sound strike harsh against the skin,
Raised voices, each demanding to be heard,
But what is said gets lost in the din of curses and insults.
Doors slam, items smash against the walls,
A voice collapses, its heat extinguished, into a lake of liquid sobs.
Apologies will come later,
But memories remain.
This conversation will become a stray thread in the fabric of their lives,
Ready to be pulled on a later date,
In another fight,
And the cloth of their life together will fray a little more.

Words of resolve repeat inside her mind.
A trip to town, an appointment that she keeps,
And then, the process starts.
Let him have his dalliances, she thinks,
Maybe one day, he'll realize what he's lost.
And if he doesn't? She no longer cares.
She can't continue this lie anymore.
Now, it's her time. She will start again.

And who knows?
Maybe one day, she'll feel those soft petals of sound,
Rumbling in a different voice,
Against her skin once more.

Monument

From the dirt it reaches for the sky
With stone fingers, as if trying to grasp
The hands of the god it was built for.

Place of worship, many lives involved
In its creation.
Some injured, others dead, still others spent their youths
To build it up.

The hands of its patron never pull the rope,
Or strike the chisel, or add the decorations to its walls.
They count out the riches required to reward
The craftsmen.
Beyond that, the patron gets the sense
Of contributing something to the ages,
To be seen long after his own bones are dust.
Immortality through objects is his aim. 

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