Love as a parasite,
able to bottle a feeling and sell it on the marketplace.
Trite, gregarious profaner of the art,
missed my morning star,
got hung up on the semantics,
couldn’t see the big picture,
focus of the little things with a microscope,
blow them up until there gigantic.
I paint on my canvas,
shades that don’t go anywhere,
shapes with no structure.
I’ve tasted sweet liquor,
drank at the fountain of youth and maintained a brittle conscience.