speechless

Who gives a damn about my love?
How could I engrave my words
on eyes that would not blink?
What metaphors might fall as tools
on tidal sand to let me build
a lighthouse looking oceanward
to send a signaled beam?

Or shall I speak of a sad garden,
where the Blue Flower's shadow
seeps into the loam of time?...

Maybe this is better:
a dreaming ghost that shuffles,
searching for a touch unknown
in tense corporeal days.

No...those eyes could never love me.
So why sift the moon's faint dust
for words that teem with dark magic?

Layers of desire were forged
without words, so let them be
unspoiled, not given into cloying art.

Who gives a damn about my love?
Why speak of this at all?
One pair of eyes never closes
but glows contented, filled with life...
would shatter on these bad words:

my heart is like a dead red rose.

No one gives a damn about my love but me...
so speaking, I converse with myself
to preserve the withered petals.