Love yet again

And so I thought

I'd paint the pain away, 

and I grabbed the palette,

and got the brushes going again, 

warmed the oils,

soiled my hands, 

yet,

for even though I loved, 

I loved with youthful arrogance, 

and audacious pride, 

seeking much, 

forgiving little, 

and so was I paid back, 

in spiteful possession, 

and insinuations 

befitting a beast, 

and so the art 

was as third rate, 

as the love had been. 

And then again, 

shattered and shaken 

and lost and hurting, 

for a second time,

I picked up the pen, 

with trembling hands, 

to turn the tears 

into verse after verse, 

of secret stories 

related to an unconcerned audience,

like a mad man balderdashing, 

standing in the middle 

of a road to nowhere,

and yet again, 

for while I had loved 

with shameless abandon, 

and fearless determination, 

not caring a damn, 

for what anybody thinks, 

I loved like a second time lover, 

still unsure, 

judging, 

analysing, 

projecting my fears 

and hopes onto the future, 

weaving lies to fool the present, 

and so 

it turned out, 

I was being judged

and analysed and betrayed likewise. 

and so a second rate love, 

gave birth to second rate verse.

And yet again, 

for a third time, 

I thought I could still

hope and fear 

and cast aside 

all doubts

and live and laugh 

and love 

once again, 

but as colorful little birds 

chirped inside my head

one morning, 

and giant butterfiles 

flapped their gossamer wings, 

stirring up,

songs unsung 

fragrances long lost, 

sights and dreams 

and thoughts, 

unseen, unthought,

It dawned upon me, 

that by and by, 

as they say, 

in the course of things, 

all that I had ever held onto, 

had slipped away already, 

without my knowing it, 

like reverse alchemy

turning gold into dust,

like an old woman's possessions, 

hidden away in a secret trunk, 

stashed in the attic, 

hidden away from the world, 

only to be feasted upon 

by moths and mice 

and termites, 

thriving in creases and folds, 

like guilt and shame and regret

thrive in the calcifying labyrinths

of an ageing heart, 

slipping,

from between my trembling fingers, 

like sand, 

slipping onto the dead beaches 

of mortal time, 

and as I cried, 

and cried my hopes away, 

and sobbed and sobbed my dreams

into oblivion, 

and wished all thoughts away, 

I realised 

I was left only 

with silence

and a lingering pain, 

and the subtle fulfilment 

that comes from having loved, 

and while this pain 

was as first rate

as pain ever gets, 

It was too subtle to be painted, 

too fleeting to be written, 

too silent to be sung ... 

and so I cried and cried my heart away, 

knowing, 

the only language love knows, 

is the unspoken word.