Dying love died inside of the sea,
A steady stream of corpses of memories,
An open-door to the open-floor of the deepest sea,
Flows inside of my heart and drowns me.
Dying love died inside of a cut down tree,
Replaced with a better building, a higher model of society,
Roots replaced with roots of distraction and something cheap,
Dying love dies inside of society.
Can we ever bring it to life again?
What chemical mixture what mixture of myrrh and frankincense?
What prescription pill and what form of technology?
What war for land or staged calamity?
Dying love like a well that was once filled with oil,
Now is a wishing-well filled with well-wishes of lost souls,
Dying love that no one knows is dead,
Idealism found in 12-gage shotguns,
The path ahead is just a bullet inside the head…
Of dying love,
Love as dead as can be,
Crippled by ideologies and concepts created by humanity,
Get your individualism discounted for cheap,
Those that are failures will just whine in their poetry.
Killed or be killed in the name of a different love,
Torture or be tortured in the name of a different love,
They don’t know the old love is dead,
Because they never knew that love existed,
So love is a side-effect of hate and insecurity,
Of fear and of materialism and richness and poverty,
And we sit writing obits for our own subconsciousness,
With dying love trapped inside a time machine,
If it came alive they would call it a terrorist,
They waterboard it and kill its family.
Dying love is as dead as can be,
But I feel the corpses of its past bubbling and convening inside of me,
Knocking down the door and coming inside of my heart,
Shouting up to my throat, and that’s how this poem got its start,
And if I cut myself open those voices will be free,
But even if those voices will be free,
No one will be listening,
Just a bunch of voices inside a cut-down tree,
Screaming with no one around,
Dying love is alive but is lost,
Never to be found.
Dying love is as dead as can be.