I have read a thousand poems,
perfect pastel paintings
of parting affections
or partners reunited.
The ****** being excited.
The mind stimulated.
The soul subjected
to the withdraw symptoms
of a broken-hearted victim
to someone’s cheating whim.

I have seen beauty broken,
flesh cut open,
skin pulled back
like a burlap sack
that holds her heart
a burden of
daring to love
then loving too much.

Identity shredded
by the one who bedded
then left sheets red wetted.

I have read the thin inscriptions
stone written in the arms
of grey angel statues,
and ****** Mary’s sacrifice
how she gave love and life
to be despised
because of what lies
between her thighs.

I have heard the moans
followed by a flood
of suicidal tears.
Each droplet eroding
the confidence
the lover once built.
Till, she wilts.

I have loved
all those broken hearts,
pushed poetry,
past their whispering rain of pain
breaking sorrow’s barrier
to help them clean the stain.

Till, the addiction claims them again
and they fade away
like a snowflake
on the cusp of spring
no longer able to fly or sing
because they melted their wax wings.

My beloveds floats away
on a crimson stream
and I cry in the wake
of losing such beautiful
human beings.