the dissection of hearts
They send love me-love me not
flowers to each other and on
good days their love is flying
like doves on a lavender morning.
When the going gets rough, their hearts
sink into a deep dark abyss, breaking
apart like the Titanic. All of the trinkets
and remainders of love, lost.
They met on a cold December morning,
when their eyes were so drunk off
of each other that their souls burned.
It was love at first sight.
But this four lettered word, with it's
sheepish grin and cherub face and
blood-red bow, must be blind, for
these two were not meant to be.
Some nights, he'd come home when
the night was too old to change into
day, and she'd be up, waiting, waiting.
Always wondering...
When the sound of her own voice became
her life's duet, she would watch the gardener
as he trimmed the love me-love me not flowers,
remembering how her and her husband kissed
at the crumbling kissing gate.
Like Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet,
Orpheus and Eurydice, their love had to come
to an end. Did not they know that true love
never lives, but it dies and dies and dies.
True love, in all it's celestial charm, and
star-crossed ways, only exist in a writer's
mind, for humans have not yet learned
how to manifest it.
To harvest it, until it's seed grew into a
garden free of lust and hatred and lies
and cheating. If only they learned
what their heart was truly capable of.
If only...
They send love me-love me not
flowers to each other and on
good days their love is flying
like doves on a lavender morning.
When the going gets rough, their hearts
sink into a deep dark abyss, breaking
apart like the Titanic. All of the trinkets
and remainders of love, lost.
They met on a cold December morning,
when their eyes were so drunk off
of each other that their souls burned.
It was love at first sight.
But this four lettered word, with it's
sheepish grin and cherub face and
blood-red bow, must be blind, for
these two were not meant to be.
Some nights, he'd come home when
the night was too old to change into
day, and she'd be up, waiting, waiting.
Always wondering...
When the sound of her own voice became
her life's duet, she would watch the gardener
as he trimmed the love me-love me not flowers,
remembering how her and her husband kissed
at the crumbling kissing gate.
Like Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet,
Orpheus and Eurydice, their love had to come
to an end. Did not they know that true love
never lives, but it dies and dies and dies.
True love, in all it's celestial charm, and
star-crossed ways, only exist in a writer's
mind, for humans have not yet learned
how to manifest it.
To harvest it, until it's seed grew into a
garden free of lust and hatred and lies
and cheating. If only they learned
what their heart was truly capable of.
If only...
