Were Love writ
as a fiction page
what outpourings of bliss
though temporary
there would be
no stress or tension
doth attend
to fan and to stretch
the raging storms of the heart
Were love writ
as a fiction page
no need there would be
to risk looking into your eyes
asking mutely
whether you understand
that the songs that I sing
are owned by you
only for you
though the vastness
daunting
separate
Were love writ
as a fiction page
all would end well
The ride towards
a western's sunset
on a lone horse
with the melody
trailing behind
like the train
of a bride's gown
flowing, caressing
tenderly brushing
a church's mid-aisle floor
O were love writ
as a fiction page
I would not
howl for the moon
nor like salmon
swim against the current
to its final rest
And O were love writ
like the usual fairy tale
happily lived ever after
he loves her
she loves him
in the words of Sting
that would be boring
And O were love writ
like a tragedy
that would withstand
the passage of time
it has been said
painful but interesting
that would keep love
burning in many hearts
even as it dies
a mere wisp of smoke
from its former blaze
as it struggles after life
for the cup of sorrow
never empties
but the cup of joy
dries out
as extraordinariness
can not keep long
from being spent
and rendered
ordinary
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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