On The Marriage Of My Parents Poem by Paul Brookes

they analyse each other, analysing each word, ear marked, set out.
to sting, an indistinct pattern, yet planned strategically
the lines waver, they are not attuned but then they we never were.

they antagonise, apologise but their are paths are set
reacting in set emotions, rationalise themselves in the belief they are in love but the patterns now ingrained, rubbed raw, tears at their limits,
which it seems are limitless. stretching into timelessness.

its as if they have been in combat a millennia, black eyes or scratched face a broken bone or two.
the sorry's and the never again's come at regular intervals, as do the children.

if this is love, then hate is so close they taste every drop
drink deeply to the dregs mixing violence with religion.
twinned in pain they have lost the door, the way is barred by swift barbs and angry love making yet still they go on as if failure means death.
each unable to live without the other, neither will admit it but they carry on in the hell of their own making,
till I suppose death do them part.