I'd call this a love poem,
if I knew what love was,
but to me it's so messy,
black and gold and red feelings,
tangles of string,
but somehow in the middle,
is the shape of a heart
and it glows, so loudly,
and so hot that I could never touch it
but if I did,
I would enjoy the burning
because anything is better
than the dull ache of the cold
bright shadows and a black moon
fires that crackle and burn like trickling water,
and a bright heart in the middle,
pumping blood like silver and gold,
and setting in the shape of two wedding bands,
that burn and burn and burn and burn,
and if one breaks,
the other will break too.
Winter 2017
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
