Love is Not a Word
Insert the word as an un-churned need,
hammer claw it, until
a loud sincerity believes in itself.
Scarlet rose or Lilly white
the erotic hibiscus deceives.
That word is a bottle of red wine
that tilts itself.
Hang it upon
a windy line of speech.
Look away
from the hollow mouth
of forever.
Reject the gauche posturing
of synthetic emotions.
A word of love
proclaims
its deathless brand
yet hides itself
in the sticky end
of a milksop's poem,
it will cling
until the prick of another thorn
is exposed
as a hasty graffiti
scribbled upon
a super soft toilet paper.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2025
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