The love is dead. Michael Gersten
The love is dead. It had a heart attack From being shattered and disappointed again and again. And it was innocent. It just wanted a hug, But did not know the way of the world, Of longing, loss, and compunction; So it grew desperate. Its deluded dreams, Its illustrious, glowing fantasies Prevented it from seeing The lack of connection And one-sided affection. It put up safeguards to keep the pain away. It hardened its walls, but the safeguards betrayed And left it with a wall of rigid passion and lust. As it aimlessly trudged, it fed itself with jagged cigarette smoke, And the love grew very sick; It felt weary and old– Because it was. Now it’s brittle, and tattered, and frayed; Its blood is cold. The wall crumbles from the slightest breeze. And that feeble aching passionless pump Freezes. Those free, then protected, then vulnerable, Radiant filigree pillars Of trust, devotion, and glee, Now a clump Of passionless rubble and sterile vermin; A corroded stump Of torturous memories. The love is dead. And no one is coming to the funeral. No one is coming to the funeral.
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