Love’s Labour Lost Syndrome

That which cannot be forgotten,
That which cannot be covered up with silence,
That which meets your eyes when you raise them up, or cast them down.
That which has remained, like a coffee mug with a broken handle, and will remain
deformed, misshapen, somehow incomplete.
Like a pen just filled with a spluttering nib, white paper unfulfilled.
A dusty rubber nipple lying on the road.
That which threads pieces of broken dreams
But remains interpretation-less.
That which distorts the image in the mirror
But cannot wipe out those hollows under my eyes.
That which people call fulfillment, like
drinking the immortal juice, but you remain
gazing at the drops of crystal clear drip
uncongealing, slow, consistent.
That which draws the wide-eyed insect
to the blades of a slowly churning fan,
a buzzing loud death of a martyr.
And you shut your eyes tight and say
“God forgive this monumental folly”.