Love is the worst in men.

To the terrible and just authors of iniquity,

Tides, fruits, ideals,
Webbing masterfully and majestically
In their puritanical whims of deceit
Descent upon us willingly or no,
Defty decantering our poor withered souls
Without delay;

Swift justice is given to those that love
Beyond reasonable doubt.

Sitting, purposely removed from sight
I dovetail each and every night
Whether the news be good or bad –
Bad poetry being the simple cure for my ails
The good drink a bad disenchanted ailment
Of my proxy give me a more retched existence
To complain of – these meek and mild whims
Amuse noone save oneself for more triumphant
Tunes and revel in nothing less than
Trivial backwardness.

This is an unweeded garden filled with good hopes
And intentions and should be mused over by the gardener
Alone.
Casting abuse at the skies is little more than a strange derth
Of anger;
Intigers have evaded your poor grasp on the unendedness of
Strife;
Cut these new sour ribbons of poetic indifference with sharp
Slashings;
They lead you towards the worst in men – not death, not history,
Not destiny or frailty or any other triviality:
Love.

Love is the worst in men.

How wickedly short it lasts, how replicatable it seems,
How quickly it fades, how easily forgotten,

How horrible are men to remember to forget,
How undutious it seems, how cruel, how remorseless,
How unabashed, how base…

Where be the virtue in love alone? Where be the pleasures
Without commitment?

Yet I cannot confess to any crimes just yet; but I am broken all the while.
Facing all fanciful ideas of love and loving and benign in one’s love
Yet still smile.

I cannot muster a moral as there is not one;
Nature gives and takes as it sees fit;
Or God or something or nothing;
But if you’d prefer a moral look to this:
Look much further than the first kiss.