Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Love Poetry is Dead

I saw him
while he never looked,
like a prisoner on parole
I thought I found it
love as they call,
I wrote and he lived
sometimes a January moon
many times as March's murmur
and then an artic autumn,
I wrote till he breathed
and bled, trickling tears
from my crown of thorns.


I've wailed and weeded
sighed to shame
kneeling to a lamenting limerick
the notes were numbered
and so were the days,
till destiny pulled
another sarcasm's sally.

The suspect is slammed shut
in that can of choke,
no symphony she recalls
sugar she doesn't savour,
from where he went
there is a hole
bile of blood,
and remains of a rhyme
wronged to rot.

First appeared in Poetry Quarterly Spring issue
here

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