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Do you know what it is to be tortured in love?

Not that it may see you perish within the day,

instead it eats at you slowly as you wither away.

Whatever strength you had left to look forward

And instead, found yourself looking back in dismay?

Have you felt the petals of a rose, like a bouquet of daggers

Sliding gently, without injury, along the line of your throat?

Threatening the ultimate, yet delivering only fear.

I ask, have you ever felt the burning of unrequited love?

The ache he feels spreads to his fingertips

From the core of a beating crimson heart,

It eats away at him from the inside.

Rapidly expanding like a sheet of ice.

When time and time again he fails

And time and time again he tries

His heart, a broken furnace, seized mid-rhyme

As icicle thoughts plunge through gray matter

And limbs lose momentum with each stride,

The life he once knew, never seemed further

Or more difficult to hide.

His self-esteem lies in a fetid puddle

Staring up at him in longing

Wishing to restore its place.

He tries to cup it within his palms,

To drink and in turn reinvigorate.

Alas, like all things in his life

He grimly watched his salvation

Trickle slowly through stiff fingers

As though his skin turned to stone

And soon, his heart followed.

For swiftly the tears of regret

Flow like Neptune’s sea

From burning eyes,

Eroding his grip and

Withering away his heart,

All hope is swept away

With the ebbing tide.

It would be unwise to decipher the ache in his heart.

So much so that he truly believes

If he were to dig down into the depths

To recall the origin of that wretched,

unwelcome, drowning sensation,

He would no longer have the strength

To climb out of that pitch black hole.

That he may be forced along Dante’s path

With no guide nor God to lead him safely.

For within those depths he will plunge, and

The path of the absurd waits hungrily at the crossroad.

Fate is an unrelenting brute.

It’s never tempted by diversion

Or wise men with silver tongues

Forming hopeful hypotheses.

It’s simple though: Que sera, sera.

 

The young mother,

an abandoned lover,

has felt the cold steel

Of Fate’s unbiased blade

Gliding easily along her cheek

 

And perhaps the cackling clown

Sobs quietly in his room

After a standing ovation.

Remembering, all too well

Why his smile is simply a mask.