You only loved me for what I could give
and gave I did till you did drink me dry.
I thought my love your cruelty could outlive
and though bonsaied, my tenderness survive.
Young limbs can bear the warping of taut wire,
soft buds will burgeon on a twisted stem
but topiary torture kills desire -
you cannot grow love with that stratagem.
I tried to be your Galatea bride,
the virgin whom you thought to carve from bone,
you hewed and shaped and sculpted as you strived
to make a Stepford statue of your own
and when mallet and chisel were set down,
you found but rubble heaped upon the ground.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
