The balance of our seesawed lives
is tipping, tipped
towards clarity our
hands are slipping

Soon one of us will
and the other one slip
slide off, falling to soft grass
sprinkled lovingly with new glass

Impossible now to climb back on
the stronger one alone will sit
in smug sorry triumph enjoy
the victory of a hollow throne;

held together in habit,
a stubborn, slow rot, till it
too stumbles, tumbles, over
and the stronger one struggles,
and wonders why not ever
what, we had
not got


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