Love is a beautiful thing, and yet it leaves us broken and wilted in the aftermath. Such a shame, to be forever tainted by the people we hold so dear.
To be in love:
a devil’s game,
for one will want to part
and go along
their separate way;
to leave a poison dart.
To be in love,
with poison taint
left coursing through the vein.
A cursed trip
with romance faint;
by chance, a derailed train.
To be in love:
run off the path
and into solemn mist.
Entangled lives-
at vines they grasp-
connections come and missed.
To be in love,
with wires crossed
and signals growing dim.
No longer sparks,
but winter frost
that bites each hand and limb.
To be in love:
the wounds as proof
of memories sublime.
Just scars remain:
a bitter truth
like fruit just past its prime.
To be in love:
a rotten game
for, if one wants to part,
the other’s left a spoiled name
tattooed across their heart.
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