Counterfeit

Counterfeit 

by Ricky Mave 

These people here, they talk too much.
Not to say I never drivel on,
But these people here, they love too much
The things I find they pawn.
And I have no lines, to draw love’s confines
And no definition,
And I have no expectation
Of any theme’s fruition.
But if ever there was such thing
 As meaning—
It would not be in that.