I've allowed you to mark down words,
to map them and write them on a blank canvas;
using caresses and kisses,
fleeting glances and feathery sighs.
I've allowed your colors to blend with mine,
to become a compound from halves to wholes;
using but fragments of our selves.
And yet we've turned each other to blotches of
convoluted ink,
turned to muddled puddles of dark and listless,
gone from Frankenstein to sinister Monsters.
Stitched up with cavalier precision and
become conjoined and grotesque figurines on
freak shows.
We've become but mutated aberrations on the face
of what is beautiful and real.
With a sincerity of gnashing teeth and vicious claws
to lies which manufacture passion and drying tears.
Oh, tell me, Love, where have we gone wrong?
From murmured lullabies of tender, doting songs
to cacophonous symphonies of vociferous disagreements.
When venom hath corroded the flower of devotion
and buried black the wilted products of affection.
Tell me, oh Love, where have we gone wrong?