The curse upon my fingertips,
and scrawled across these pages,
is the pursuit of love
in all its many stages.

I'm sure there is a place
for romance in a book
but my folly's shown me
in my poetry,
it is only just mistook.

I've poured my heart
in rivulets of crimson red ink,
to pages with their open ears
waiting to hear what I think.

And when those words
are read aloud,
they seem so insincere,
across the misery of musings mouths,
long since dead, it's clear.

And so without hesitance
I retire this muse,
in search for something new.
Perhaps I'll trade this pen of red,
for one a shade of blue.

It may not have seemed romantic,
this poem I've written here,
but it's the last poem I'll write
of love.
Of this I have but tears.

01/26/2014

Posted on 01/26/2014
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