As much as I want it, It doesn’t work out,
As much I’d like him, he won’t come around,
As much as I have loved him, more than everyone else,
He doesn’t feel the same way about us.
Love, we hoped, would solve everything,
Love, we thought, would secure everything,
Love, we fought for, would absolve everything.
Love, it turns out, is just like us,
Love, we found out, is prone to rust,
Love, even as I now speak, has nothing to do with poetry,
Love, is a ritual.
And,tribal ceremonies or what we understand of them,
Have made us believe,
That rituals and rites need blood of at least one person,
And, that with simple mathematics, hurts at least a few.
X and Y,
No longer talk.
X, lies in a double-storey room, losing blood from arms and legs.
Vomiting more blood and bile,
And, almost, enjoying it.
It’s like the moon is controlling her,
With fingers if not hands.
She loses another eye,
and still lies sighing, relief, on the land.
This ritual takes place as X dies,
There are people who are trying for alibis,
She laughs at them,
They don’t stop.
They look all around,
She her half-dead ghost,
think she’ll replace her good,
So, they kill her again.
The colour of pagan blood burns the sky,
It is blue like an ancestor’s eyes,
It’s like someone has replaced the moon,
and overthrown the sky.
So, there is a endless void,
that could suck her in,
like drinking soup instead of eating it.
The only 5 stars that are left there,
Are allies of Y.
Y, himself, is not around.
He’s off to looking at a false oasis in a false land.
He’s no longer even required.
The thing is,
That love is a dying disease,
But an art of dying?
Because, as we know, art is an imitation of life.
However, I haven’t read notes on dying.
Steps to death, yes.
To afterlife, everyone tries.
But, nobody’s explanation of death satisfies.
And if with life, the artist expires,
So must her art.
If death were made of fire, so should have been my heart.
But, death is not, so heart mustn’t be.
Don’t argue about pyre,
That’s not what death looks like.
That’s a blood-less ritual,
To make manure.
And to keep municipal services working.
If this is what happens when one is inspired,
Then I know why death must be.
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