A poem about love


Sometimes love goes astray, is for the worse
basilisk love that turns our hearts to stone,
more lonely than we were when on our own,
less kind than once we were. Such love’s a curse

that turns all sweetness sour, all milk to curd,
and yet it starts well, in a speaking glance,
touch on a hand perhaps. We take a chance
on love, each time. We know that it’s absurd

to take such risks. But risk’s part of the game
we throw our heart as dice. Sometimes we win
eyes meet, hands touch. Paradises begin
unfolding in an instant. All the same

we cannot know love’s end. Breath hard, and trust.
Or hedge your bets and opt for safe pure lust.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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