Love
Consumes a thousand words
To digest a pure
Wickedness
Poets
Literary pawnbrokers
Have sold their souls for love.
Oh yes,
They are the ones who define
It as cantankerous
And humiliating
But they at least experience it
Like neither you nor I may
For they see how powerful
This love
Can be.
We work for our bread
And hard, leaden water
While we are told
What love is.
Love, in a thousand words, more or less,
Is a light which shines
When no one looks
And no one cares
Over the single woman
Who has thrown herself from a dreary climb
Into colder, lonelier waters below.
Life,
The Wicked Bridge
From birth to death, spanning death
In all of its natural beauty
Yet still we fear it,
And it leads nowhere.
It is only a moment away
From eternity.
And love is the streetlamp
Which lights our way
Just before death consumes us,
Saving us from the
Wickedness.