How Love Becomes Pity Through Poetry

Her love’s a sonnet, lost in some obscure
facsimile of metaphor.  Her lies
are whispers of antithesis; he’s sure
her poetry’s a copyright disguise.
He listens still, in fascinated awe
to chaos that he once mistook for verse.
The rhymes are slant and only serve to draw
the metaphor of love from bad to worse.
Her tears are the enjambment of her soul
which break her broken days of boring hell
into a non-monotony.  Her goal
is futile, and she doesn’t do it well.
He listens still, the living to the dead.
The sonnet ends; he smiles and shakes his head.

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