VAGABOND HEART
Her love is frail as bird’s bone
and holds the truth of a thief’s word,
she plays “loves me, loves-me-not’'
the last petal being the hardest,
defoliated and left to rot
He, being born with a wild heart
and thirsty for love from the very start,
wander the night streets holding the empty cup.
The wet pavers, like a mirror, reflect his pain,
and man knows broken heart can kill
if not learnt how to mend and heal
He carries his heart in his fist
his fingers bleed from gripping with such force,
the cup lays empty in the gutter
and he vows never drink from it again,
but his wild heart is hopeless,
the vow cannot be sustained
No merriment for this vagabond heart
and his story has no happy end,
as affection from her part does not exist,
she plays with his love like marbles in a pit.
With his love she’ll play
from his love she’ll feast
—It’s the nature of the beast!
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Comments
i inferred that some ideal notion of love forever elusive generates a profusion of creativity and/or mastery of another physical or mental strength as a substitute for the pitch perfect notion of a counterpart til death do them part.
Thank you for your comment, Matthew. "a substitute for the pitch perfect.."
you are right Poet. I think love is not cruel, because love is just that: Love!
It's what we do with love that brings consequences of bliss or pain.
It's the complexity of the human nature, I reckon. Both, men & women
play with love like marbles in a pit.
Unrequited love, the hardest of all...fabulous write with some wonderful lines x
This is quite possibly my favourite poem of your making to date .. indeed, there are several very fine lines in its composition but those two opening one's are amazing and certainly most memorable .. Neville
Thank you, this is one of my favourites as well. Actually, I have a soft spot for this poem and I am so pleased you like it, Neville. I knew you would. Cheers.