There is no love.
Just the illusion of love
to be used and exhausted
till the last dregs then trampled
and smote with brickbats, thorns,
whatever’s handy.
The illusion simpers in the gutter
Or an asphalt pavement
Till it dries and shrivels up
Into an unusable monstrosity
To be peddled no more
For the fallen mortals have
Given up on the illusion and
have used and exhausted
and trampled some more
and all’s spent where the
losers are blind Samsons,
impotent and deranged
Lears and cross Timons
and it’s all a tragedy
with pain and hurt and
laceration and nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
except a crimson cupidon.
An insubstantiality
A myth.
Less than nothing.
Poet’s Bio: Aneesha Roy is currently pursuing a degree in literature. She has been published in The Literary Yard, Ijagun Poetry Journal, Haiku Journal and Contraposition. She is a member of the editorial team of Ijagun Poetry Journal.
1 comment for “‘Crimson Cupidon’ by Aneesha Roy ”