Love is not here.

Why insist on making small talk?

It is so pained,

A soliloquy less strained.

Why can’t we all just be real?

Trust or lack thereof.

Sad the way our world has become.

No sooner do we learn to love,

Our hearts are often torn asunder.

It is no wonder,

We resort to pillage and plunder.

Our dying world beseeches us to proceed with care yet many still carry on without one.

The tree that stood with such pride now wears a crooked smile,

Its barren branches stirring little in a cold starless night,

The moon winking out of existence,

Broken beyond repair.

How will the rest of us fare?

When three little words, “I, Love, You,” are so hard to say,

Break me, make me, forsake me,

Take me.

Never.

Love is not here.

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