by John Carse
i am a lover
of the serious moonlight
the solemn pleasure
of the rose
and the ugly criticism
of the early morning light
that makes me doubt
my frivolous existence
i love
not only the pretty things
the sparkling baubles
of your occasional kisses
the soft seductive touches
of your eyes
i love too
your lies
it’s twisted i know
but when you lie to me
i think that you still care
enough to hide the truth
it is your youth
that bruises my age
your rotting love
that abuses me