Love Wasted



Love can be killed

so easily,

nick after

painful nick.

Marveling at each drop of blood

as it clusters round

some blade of grass,

adding color

to the greenery,

you fail to see

the paling of the victim,

until the nicks become

one great big wound

surpassing healing.

And then the love,

it goes so easily.




Love's not

some substance

you can manufacture.

Nor a person that can be


It flows,

like blood

in veins and arteries

and capillaries



That is why

a cut can make it

flow out so

and a thousand cuts

can waste it.

I speak not only

of strange, personal loves,

you hear,

but the greater love

of men and women

for the things they hold

most dear.




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