Little Heart

Roses red and violets blue
Love too thin to be consumed
Roses painted on canvas skies
Underpinned with fabric lies
Such simple shows of love or hate
Make truth a sorry, sad inmate
Such tales of gloried ecstasy
Deglorify complexity
Clichés are thrown from every height
To compliment inadequate might
Where passion was, there’s barren land
That leads to roses changing hands.

Names in sand and rings in gold
Lets not an ancient love unfold,
But rather dried and tired breaths
That sound like sighs but stand for deaths
Of passion hot at violent core
Yet, even that’s been done before
The dreams you had nocturnally
Are plastic-wrapped, externally
Dull and matte and awfully bruised,
So curious that one would choose
A romance deep as ocean’s foam
But better, surely, than all alone
For that’s our fear, for that’s our plight
We find a lover out of spite
To please the self-dementing mind
That aches for banal and benign
It isn’t love, that organ cries
If not reflected in pinkish skies
Or perfumed nights, which are rewarded
With peppery love that’s much less sordid
Than ugliness that is more true
Than roses red and violets blue.