the Dirge

the Dirge

Sometimes it is a cold cruel hurt
like frost encased in vinegar
an unknowing pain
that understands not
its existence
but the crippling wretch
it encounters.
Maybe it is like a soft dirge
of waltzing melodic heartstrings
wound tight enough to wound
strained until it cannot strum
with its sorrowful tune
too like the pain
to stop.
Maybe its like a broken wing
feathers mauled and
sinew strained
bones broken in fractured words
that spew like oil to
sink the bird
that once carried it on its wings.
Like a butterfly with a
fingerprint stain
ruined so it cannot fly.
Like a vampire without
its bloody teeth
Like a fish without
its slimy fins.
Love is like a lost season
drifting in the chalky white
of old and faded days
that danced in a begotten dirge
slowly forgetting
the warmth of summer
and the winds of spring
the fresh of winter's eve
and the color of autumn's leaves.
Love is a cold and cruel hurt
burrowed under glowing coals
to rise like a seedling
at love's first kiss
and die inevitably alone.