Forlorn Lover

I see you everywhere. I see your face on all paintings. You are in every song and even birds now tweet your name. Every prose tells our story and I hear your voice in the lines of all poetry.

So I pile these books and reduce them to debris. So now, I dread poetry and my pen flows not, in fear that it may, your name, write. You are the death of my Art.

Yet, you linger.

Tell me, how did you become Air?

#TheForlornLover

love not meant to be

what do you do with love not meant to be?

do you shove it back to the heart, its root

and let the rough spiky hairs pierce you

or vomit it out of your mouth and burn in a furnace?

do you leave it locked up in the bedroom

seeking liberation

and walk around, body like carcass

or do you carry it along

trudging from its weight and pain

tripping, rising, slogging?

would you rather live the love in faith

like the mustard seed

feign blindness and ignorance?

embrace its folly and just smile

even when your eyes harbour tears

and your stomach rumbles: this love is not yours

what do you do with love not meant to be?