We are too much alike,
Two halves on the same side of the circle.
Not complete. We charge ahead,
Pulling out the stops. No one in control.
We are the far end
Of the bell curve. We lack a fulcrum
To give us steady balance.
Like kids in a playground,
When I teeter, you rush to me,
And we both fall.
We have no brakes, no solid ground
Within ourselves.
We build our lives on sand, too busy
Burning bridges, to see what lies ahead.
Together, we do not make a whole.
We concentrate each other,
Creating intense hues
That bleed through the page in indecipherable prose.
We rhyme, but make no poem.
Copyright 1994, Diana W. Smith, All Rights Reserved