Finding Fault

Finding Fault

Therese Pace

Slow dust settles on events of importance
like silt in the seabed, camouflaging,
as autumn leaves, that having done their bit
of photosynthesis, let go of branch’s girth, and
one by yellowed one are glued to soggy earth.

Time stands still as time moves stalwart on
to pilfer sanity. I wash my Pilate’s hands of
waning zenith in your Perspex eyes,
finding fault with fault because
it stands in the way of excellence.
Arms of clay whisper to me
of wanton dreams, of rotten fruits
dangling from rubbery branches
in sinful Eden gardens.
I wrap myself in repugnance as fire and ice
exit your mouth of mere words
in a deluge of misconstrued constructions
dealing where blows lacerate worst,
beneath the diaphragm, scarring,
jarring with the soft nature of a relationship.