Poetry

 And so, 

as a young lover,

I expected, 

like all young lovers, 

a poem

to be

all things that love is;

kind and gentle 

and warm and sensible, 

I found that a poem 

so often grows upon you,

like dirty wild grass, 

rough and prickly,

even echinate,

and its roots 

spread inside you,

with a desperate malignancy, 

causing blisters 

all over the soul, 

and heartache,

and burns,

sometimes, 

causing even the colour of your skin

to change,

from the warm yellow-pink 

of fresh life, 

to the deadly brownish-grey,

of putrescence! 

A poem! 

Unkind, 

unfriendly, 

possesing, 

encumbering,

even hateful sometimes;

loathsome, 

like a slimy beast, 

attempting to 

coil up around you, 

tightening and tightening

its circuituous grip,

till you choke,

twisting and curling around you, 

laughing,

dragging you into its swamp,

while you struggle

to free yourself ..

a harmless thing, 

a poem .. 

like love .. 

or is it??