Love Isn't Strong

I've fought a war of flesh under a lavender sun
with wisps of burnt paper carrying thoughts away,
black vessels of everlasting love.
The eyes of chilled wine taste sweet underneath
the beginnings of mutual dissection and invasion,
as we tear and prod.
R rated films in the back of cars on lookout point
and teenagers playing chess with pawns of shame,
everyone wins this game.
It has taken time to turn from the massacre
and only words have been left to me,
because the rest has gone on to find better days.

The unicorn in meadows of poison ivy
Plagues my sketch with dark roses,
Red for the blood of soldiers fallen
As many dead on the ground as six feet under.
If I could steal fool's gold from a mine of coal,
My eyes would rest from lustful dreams
Of awkward moments that refuse to yield
and jello coasters of no great deed.

No want or will can still the dial
bereft of culture and compensation.
Violins in the hands of kids and
little fairies, whose pleasures find tides
of marmalade soaps, are companions
in the eyes of uncleansed souls.
So together ended and forever fought
are the lies of love and separation.

There lies no turf to feel the clearing of predictable
paths that snow flakes follow as easily as
my once lost child.
And children still laugh and play, out of habit,
in the holes of stakes that have grown from
shallow graves in the mists of grey.
With diluted pupils a gaze through the smoke
into a ceremony of estranged colours,
rainbows of emotion.
At last, the fisher has flew too long and grows tired
of introverted cattails on marsh shores,
his last dive towards water leaves him stranded.

No more.





To The Beginning