I stroll along the mud road,
Letting my hands lazily pass over the ruddy weed stalks
And looking down the road that dances on, hiding the next turn with an overgrown chock
Like tomorrow, hidden and thick with stems of hopes-
I surrender to love and grief
Wave a white flag, dump myself like a wet rag, give in, sell out.
This is my first poem in months. It is my deed of armistice.
I would have written something sexier, poetry breathing joy.
But that ink dried – disuse. Remember, this is my first poem in months.
I took time off to love. And love has no blood links with joy.
All I want to write about is love, forever.
I want to steal every book ever written or to be written
And blot out the insignificant humdrum scribbled in it,
To replace it with “love, love, love….”
Love that never ends. Everlasting love.
But is that a real thing?
Love that never ends. Even if the echo of every mention of love is grief,
Can we still ever love?
Love like those quarks and quantum foam that welcomed the universe
And would never leave her.
Are we irredeemable masochists – seeking joy, finding hurt, leaving on measly slices of happiness that never fills the hunger of loneliness in us all?
What are we really? What do we want? What should we want?
Love? Everlasting love? Love ever, intertwined with souls and transcending death?
Do you know, friend?
Next time they ask you for an example of a paradox, an oxymoron, an irony, a metaphor
A hyperbole, an onomatopoeia, a pun…something, like a phantom limb.
Whisper to them : “everlasting love”