The Day Love Was Put to Trial

Today was the beating
of the judge's mallet,
slamming down on his wooden
desk. Don't blame him.
It's all he knows.

Wearing black, serving
justice for need of order.
Love, listening in, patiently.
It has failed us, cries prosecution.

Perhaps love reaches a wrinkle.
Time has no concern here.
The dead walk the earth
wearing watches.

Perhaps love is a floating ghost.
Haunting the physical world,
how it plays with imagination.

There is no sense in thinking
about it--the feeling explains
its abstraction.

Says Love, Did you know you think
too much? Maybe truth is made of lies.

It's all in the conviction, how you push
your vote through the doorway

where light can find answer for you.

Arthur's picture

Last updated June 15, 2011