Scattered Ponderings

Cupid

And he said, to the darkness, listen, and hark this.

Hark my pain, and know this is what plagues me, again, again.

Hear my heartbeat slow and speed, and hear it finally freed.

Red to grey, the rose has dried, withering, fallen, the rose has died

And saying this, he steps to the ledge, stands carefully by the edge.

Knuckles white with force, desperation too, of course.

As if touched by winter's bitter lips, from where the north wind seeps.

Hair billowing, wings of a dove, about to be stained red by love.

The white canvas awaiting pain, awaiting a lost heart's bitter stain.

And Cupid watched him and wept, for he wanted the rare rose kept.

So he glides forth on his wings, watched the man snip his strings.

Every beat of wings the beat of a heart, able to tear men apart.

But before he let go of the last rope, holding him up, his last hope,

Cupid throws down his bow and cries, for the rose that readily dies.

All my fault, he says with ivory lips, my arrows lead you to life's dips.

And as his tears fell steadily, he says, you are to die because of me.

Golden tears, down a chiselled cheek, a God who cries, weak.

And the man looks at him, whispers only, why is your light so dim?

You shall find me a grave man, but death is not in a God's plan.

Then he plummets, strings cut, to be another body in a rut.

A man ruined complete and utter, a lifeless form in a gutter.

But Cupid caught him in his arm and held him from harm.

Whispers, did she break you till you forgot we all weep too?

Didn't you know Gods will weep, for you who've fallen so deep.

And the man trembled like a leaf in the wind, says, I have sinned.

Whispers, I am what you should despise, so turn your eyes.

Watch me plummet like a stone, and perhaps for my faults I'll atone.

And Cupid regards, features soft, the man he now bore aloft.

Brushes his lips by his cheeks, his forehead, his lips.

Says softly, you're worth it to me.

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Trippy rhymes and strangely bad poems with me 101