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.
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