Until I Know Not What Is Real Or Pantomime Poem by Mark Heathcote

What is burned, faded grey isn’t worth any less
Whatever changes take place, I’ll love you nonetheless.

Whatever individualities, foibles
You have I’ve found I’ll never hex, tint, with poisons.

Love is accepting of all flaws like a river
It winds mouth wide open fully in its slither.

It drools asks my brains where are they temporary?
Inside lost my heart doesn’t beat ancillary.

Someone else’s flame ignites my being all the time
Until I know not what is real or pantomime.