Love

Love is just a word

made up by some lonely poet –

in search of more words

to describe his solitude.

Proof litters the floor

old rhymes, tattered round its edges –

fading ink and dried wine glass stains

to circle what thought important in blood.

And he writes from the heart

though such things can not be trusted –

as it gives way to his own empty words

confusing this love with lust.

Love comes from a man’s dream

of waning desires and growing anger –

escaping reality, day tripping forever

within every line he writes.

Love is just a word

just a word indeed.