Since a small child
a belief has been held
that love can conquer all.
Love, sweet love
was the one thing
that would be victorious. glorious.
Nourishing, ever growing...
flowers for no reason
poems for every season.
The quiet touches
in midst of darkness
contented pats while sleeping.
Terrible battles fought
gigantic victories hard won
preserved; she was ever served.
A solid, golden ideal
chiseled in hardest stone
love shall always prevail.
What is one to do
when love has not died,
nor withered, simply lost her bloom.
The ones forever in love
have grown to an aloneness
a closure both recognize.
Oh God, what can be done
when love, sweet love
is no longer triumphant.
When that held dearest
no longer may sustain...
when the poet learns
love is not enough?
