(From my novel “Within the Bosom,” as envisioned by “narrator” Janis Elizabeth Samson, writing about her parents’ love affair.)

Love songs write themselves deep where shallow Time’s
Intent distorts the light, so all that once
Was false bows to request of Truth a dance.
Then black washes to red, such minor crimes,
And broken hearts chase down forbidden strains
Of melody and imagery and pulse.
A sharp-to-flat transposing chorus dulls
What black of white and white of black complains.
The lost may serenade the runaway.
The found may turn the weary blues to reel.
The dirges discarded, fast friends yet may
Eternal prove in the final reveal.
And purple lips and crimson tender say
Together lyrics plumbed from depths concealed.