the weakness

the longer it’s been
more months passing
more color fills the vessel
tilted pitcher of reds and pinks
intensifies instead of lessens
i think time has played an evil trick
wounds should heal instead of blister
what a full pot is is something closed
no room for words or weeds
so etched into my skin of gold,
“my love is weak, my
mistakes grow old”
(by someone else and not myself)
who left behind the smell of burn and smelt