She giggled and squirmed and begged happily
“You know words, talk to me of love.”
“Love” I replied, “will lead us all to end.
Down its sorrowful sinews, we stand no chance of escape.
It masquerades as something playful as a wind.
But a wind will turn to a storm, just as a spring’s evening
Becomes a bleak winter’s night.
Be it death, or betrayal,
Or a change in our bloody, mechanistic hearts,
Love will ebb like breath from our bodies
Or as tears falling on autumn’s leaved grounds.”