What a waste
is love unspent
when timely love is scheduled
and racked like a rifle
for early deer,
the barren turnip patches stretch on for miles
and our love found no place to sit
and be still.
And after love sours with age
and misuse,
we are the first to feel death
as cells expire expire expire
using any excuse to rail against an ending
we cannot even imagine.
There cannot be warnings,
no one in the middle of driving a great way
can see rot
as it unravels a tire,
or simple corrosion from too many toxins
as a turn key buckles
or burns the underside of a carriage.
To hold something for so long
and have no place for it,
to love again and again...
Why is it that when we love
we do it with speed of death
far beyond our timetable?
