so, how do I start writing this kind
of letter?
the time I spend thinking about love is just as valuable
as the constant drinking that doesn’t lead to anything
except intense headaches.
exiting through the doors of my past, I didn’t notice the paper years
that have been ripped off the calendar by the winds
of sadness and happiness
together with relentless time, leaving no discernible traces.
generous accomplishment of unconquerable theory
only managed to create interesting situations
when you want to break the barrier of the unbreakable bond
with the past.
it may have its value if it doesn’t accuse former lovers
of games with broken hearts that cause pain,
something like hitting an empty bag, mercilessly.
it’s depriving innocent souls of happiness,
those innocent souls
who know what the secret serum of love is
with only one single fault:
for that rare talent they always choose either the wrong target,
unsuitable location or
wrong time.
love is actually nothing but a barbed wire
woven from aromatic flowers
that attracts with its peculiar tenderness
but it only turns out to be a trap of trust.
it’s adorned by terrifying beauty,
by subtle arrogance with no obvious weaknesses.
in every minute it will seek a free second
to separate it from the parental unit, even if it’s
disturbing the balance for the whole concept
of the private universe.
as victims of that kind of love
we are able to undertake different and unnecessary nonsense.
we become slaves to deadly despair
and unlimited joy.
such love doesn’t hesitate even once
and it doesn’t care who’s going to be poisoned by its toxic value.
it is the source of eternal warmth
and deadly frost.
it’s a sensible picture for dreamy artists
trapped in a world of illusion
who believe in its power to save them from confusion of thoughts—
but they’re desperately wrong.
it leads to uncertainties and then it takes you back —
to the past.
it often creates conflicts with the feelings
and we are almost always defeated.
when in love we’re dealing with concepts of being in love
and almost always get misunderstood.
and then what?
we sail towards the new game of fate, hoping maybe
for something new, something
that’s already been haunted by memories.
something inside our minds.
and now— really—
how do I start writing the resignation letter
of this kind?
©Tom Del Braco
tomislavpoetry 