the cremains of love
are not as black and amorphous
as the ashen remains
at the end of a consumed life,
but can burn just as furiously,
a bright center melting a whole,
searing into the soul
an antrum, a hollow cavum
where a sanguine, luminating
and hopeful heart once was.
fortunately, for most of us,
we survive the disenchantment of lost love
and often soon thrive anew
when suddenly grey turns to blue
with the surprising tickle of serendipity,
the ensuing promise and inevitable delusion
that is sprung by whet and dewy-eyed amour.
alas, albeit this green infusion of hope and hue
has us soaring high and heliotropically,
it is inevitably all ephemeral, only solar bursts
of vim, glorious again for a few foolish moments,
shining iridescently under the merciless sun,
the mephistophelean one, which draws us in
to liquefy our waxen wings of love.
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l.m