Tuesday, July 11, 2017


Those of us who don't win in love
Who don't get to clasp the beloved to heart
We are lucky
We are set free

To roam the mountains
To write till our pens go blind
To sing till our voice changes the seasons

As perennial losers at love's door
The moon takes us under its wings
We travel with the tides.

You will see the solitude of Marquez in our eyes
Sometimes, even the hurt of Frida
A few of us can drive Freud to the asylum
With their endless brush strokes for that one painting

We are lucky

We are never alone
In a well made home, with a marmalade family
And a marriage which smells like diapers

As for love, we are only there
Before it begins
We are blessed
To be never around for love's funeral

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