Delectable Dee


There are people born cursed
to love only but never be loved.
Whose pure affections be returned
with plucked petals pierced by thorns.
To where promises remain as dreams
stringed with tears to drown the heart.

For as much as they all know
love is a vessel still to be waited on
the docks where they can feel, hear and see
a glimpse of the sea of tears
now called fate.
Its cold breath tangling their hairs,
stinging their skins.
Its cries drowning the frail, beating of their hearts,
screaming bargain for love
(only) to be requited with castles of sands.

Such a feeble excuse for existence
to only sing requiems for love.
Such an irony to build an empire of words
from such a small word as love,
causing people to reel with emotion
yet remain oblivious to the feeling.

For the seemingly longest of times,
surviving through
vision-starved dreams
and lucid desperations.
Though how can you tell
if the joys and pains
and the burning regrets,
if, are they at all real?


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