Monday, 21 November 2016

To Forget

I don't recognise love these days.
It appears to me only in tearful gasps
or an eye full of loathing.

The precursors to a smile have atrophied.
Withered and become pitiful things
Like a dog taken one kick too many.

Too far gone. Things more akin now
to snarls of resentment, plaintive wails.
Bared to bite and break the skin.

And so, the remains of any small comfort
putrify. Rotting humours; the old 'black bile'.
A sickly joke to stick in and twist.

It's enough for this that was once a man
in love, that feels death every night.
I don't recognise myself these days.

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Qu'est-ce que c'est?

Loneliness feels akin to love Should you be shown a smiling eye