Love Is Signed To Lies

Awake from a slumber Raise head above parapet. You then stand stock-still, a sad Sorry being. Live your days And soon months as a shadow. An unreachable figure. Why speak? You're not profound Do not dream as a Rimbaud, Or long for a Verlaine. It's the ending you fear. That time passed speaks off a yearning And wallowed in romance. Love becomes A strange thing that twists and cuts. For what we call love Is but the shudder of lust On any youth's shoulder.