A rotten wound blistering from the soreness of murder,
A stomach bulging at the pressure of bitter liquid—
Love is a scimitar thrust through the heart,
Love is the hand that grips the hilt, turning and twisting with every little sway of the universe.
Love is the sun’s anger poured over diseased skin;
Love is the finger of death held at bay from the trigger’s pull
While the whirlwinds of all the galaxies storm and rage back against it.
Love is the slap struck across the face, over and over, with no hope of its ceasing.
Love is the hurt which has no soothing,
And the anger which has no outlet,
And the sorrow that has no sigh,
And the payment which has no reward,
And the desire which has no hope.
It screams the seven agonies of life
While it reaches into the heavens as an adamantite mast,
A bleeding support beam for the stars;
From its burden it never gains relief.
Love’s second name is Love,
And its first, Misery.