Jan 11

Love is a word
like a sword
that has worn
out its scabbard,
a lonely bastard,
or a red rose
that opens alone,
a dream that lingers
for too many seasons
and passes in the shadows,
furrows in the dust
on a bannister,
a rock in the garden
of lust,
an empty place
at a table,
a ring on a cobweb
in the rain,
a long hair on your bed,
a nail in a blank wall.

r
Written by
r  NC
(NC)   
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