life is, life is, and love is not,

as love is just a viri plot,

that hits the brain and blinds the eyes,

to which the ugly looks, like nice,

to which the reek smells, like a rose,

or - like a violet, like - a mimose,

to which th' imperfect's a perfection,

Love Muse is blind in her selection,

Love's lusty god is cruel and mean,

he poisons arrows and, with them, hurts,

he sends his servants, feelings' birds

to obfuscate the reason's sanity,

he leads a lad to a profanity

to get the access to the liked,

which, later, can be outpsyched,

and down the prince of love to a tatterdamalion,

and, when the crowned wake up,

he'll see his failure

just to begin a suffering tide

to be depressed, to cry, to yell, to hide,

to ride the horses and to hit his head,

as he accepts that a fake love is dead,

that he's a victim of the poison-carrying genes,

he'll make himself a hermit living on beans,

he'll be a sophist looking for the cause,

he will write verses stating,

that Love's Muse is a traitor, 

that he's possessed by Eros, perpetrator,

that made him blindly be a dater-

he'll do all that, believe, please, the narrator.

   Ivan Petryshyn ©


10.27.2017, 8:50 pm CST





This poem is about: 
Our world


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