He once wrote of love and of passion,
of happiness and of faith.
And they walked into his life
like his words upon a page.
His poetry held the right meanings.
There was no need for caution,
as he never imagined her to be a mere wraith.
The grasp of fantasy was rife.
He didn’t expect it would assuage.
His poetry spoke of no ends, just beginnings.
But the pages burned as his love departed
and slowly the meanings changed.
He now wrote of hurt and of pain.
He wandered in the dark, lost.
His poetry spilled tears of loss.
He changed the way his poetry started,
He wrote of lovers estranged,
of tears and of rain,
and of the many ways to accost.
His poetry had words in chaos.
He realised he had made a mistake
and tried to write his story.
He wrote the first line
but his love was reluctant
to be stripped naked to the world.
Persuasion only gave him a heartache
and he had never been more sorry.
He decided to consign
all that his words had meant
to a parade of love’s mockery unfurled.
He never wrote of love again,
gave up on hopes of a promise
and the dependence on his heart.
His poetry held no meaning anymore,
even the ones of love belied.
He no more let himself be in pain,
something in him had gone amiss,
as if he was this way from the start.
He made sure words would no longer pour
and quietly, the poet in him died.
- The Lover @ Soul Intoxicated