Valentine

My thoughts arrive in short, staccato bursts; the long lines never seem to want to flow. Macabre at best, generally, worse; uncertain, the direction they will go. Romantic phrasing seems a foreign tongue; a lilting verse on love just comes out forced. Yet beetles drawn to steaming piles of dung, as love language, are largely not endorsed. On this, Hallmark’s most halcyon of days, pray do not be incensed, thy count’nance marred, if, in attempts to woo with lofty praise, I do compare thy scent to fragrant nard. Penned valentines, a Sisyphean feat, but you’re my rock, and I, your paraclete. ————— for the Valentine Poetry Contest sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose written on 01/13/23