It's 9:57, morning tide-
melancholy mocks me
with a sick kind of humor,
I snatch my pen and scrawl,
well geez, I'm livid
man deters love from our very own hearts;
we avow integrity
enough to remain nameless,
but I know you
you're the fellow asleep at mass,
who buys love
instead of being love-
and that's okay
you say sex is cheaper
than any feverish nature
Love today has got nothing to say-
no more poetry,
it's cutting edge
with swingers who curse the moon
for her brandish stare
I use to blot the nights out
with ink from a spirited well,
but now my pen is devoid of
its usual calmness
and has found a disquietness in prose,
where love never seems to settle
between the verses,
as she's always fleeing
with her skirt hiked about her knees
as though fear has turned love into
a coward,
and me a woman
who flinches at her own words
