Of poets

In bushels of bramble thorns

lies captured the stench

of scarlet roses. 

Bound with no escape

in sight the heavy 

breath of these scarlet roses.

Of hearts beating their

last beat they speak 

these darkened winds

on a starless night.

They are all choking 

on crashing waves of

submerged oceans and

drowning seas under the sky

of these starless nights.

It's time the poets 

abandoned it.

Banished it, burned it

and scattered its ashes.

Smeared it with ink and

rubbed it off every paper.

It's smudged, stained, tainted. 

It's a dirty word, this love.