Leaning Divide

The fence leans crooked, a sigh in splintered wood,

nails rusty like old wounds, and broken where it stood.

I pressed my palm to the plank—too weak to hold,

a snap cracked the silence, brittle and cold.

Yards divided like promises that never met,

a line marked by peeling paint and regrets.

Each plank a story nailed with rusted lies,

dividing spaces that never touch, just sigh.

I leaned again, felt the give, the slow collapse,

a border fragile as the words trapped in my laps.

The fence stands broken but still claims its place,

a crooked border I can’t quite erase.