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Love never gave birth to poets

Darling, love never gave birth to poets,

as love is born in cradle of the grief;

it crawls and takes your icy heart away

and quickly hides into the silver mists!



It prowls for prey, it haunts for glory

silently watching, perceiving the sound

of hands that touch when love is bound,

on this realm of flabbergasting sadness.



We're just actors on this dreadful scene,

I'm afraid I slaughter another dream!

still, life unfolds: we love, we fly and die

yet, at some point, the smoky curtains rise!



We never love, unless with a broken heart:

often claim to love just one, but secretly-

Yes, we do love another; words mean nothing

but contraption, as we're too afraid to fight!



I cannot always portray it in jolly colours

because my heart was bit by snake of pain,

I am the one, who in your soul will remain

as the one you loved within a silly game.



Therefore, the velvet mask of night is set

upon my eyes when my weary soul is dying,

don't ever shed tears; now it's too late-

past midnight; the candles aren't burning!

Submitted: Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, July 23, 2013


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