Poem: Fallen Trees

Fallen Trees

Love is jet black.
For it blinds on the bluest sunlit days.
It is a siren,
deafening sensibility,
of logic fed ways.

Love is pure ice.
For it topples a cleat edged wall.
It is a feather bed,
of gentle warm breath,
that breaks the fall.

Love is a mild poison.
For it aches the heart - constricted.
It is a soothing song,
of music unrestricted.

January 2013
Gary Pilarchik