Defeated in Love

It is like a lost, forsaken soldier—
Deteriorating alone on a war field of murmurs,
Where no war whoop exists, only remnants of vows
That never came home.

Stabbed as many times as Caesar by friends—
But these wounds cut deeper.
They bleed from within, not the nose.
They hurt in silence,
Where even screams are smothered by doubt.

Veins pulse like Napalm,
Bursting quietly—
An intimate world war under the skin,
Where memory turns into shrapnel
And each kiss a specter with teeth.
Blinded by loveliness,
As Surdas writing in darkness,
I strain for love with bleeding hands,
Writing pain with each heartbeat.
What spell that I adore
Statues that never look?

If only I could discover a Victor Frankenstein,
And plead with him: Make me a loved one,
One sewn not of flesh but of fact.
For these terrestrial beings—
They touch, they entice, yet never remain.
They love like the weather—transitory,
Beautiful, and gone before you believe in it.

I have strolled through gardens
That held out promises of spring,
Only to discover thorns muttering winter
Under every rose.

I've burned candles for specters
That never heard my name,
Constructed altars for passions
That dissolved like mist beneath sun.

Yet, I bear a heart
That will not yield,
That keeps beating despite the wounds,
That writes in hope,
Even when the ink is tears.

Call it madness.
Call it poetry.
But it is mine.
And perhaps someday—
Someone will remain.