Love Has Its Own Scars...
love does not sleep with clouds
and flowers...
nor wait patiently on dawn!
but with the barrel of the gun
cold on bruised lips,
with the torn flesh of moonlight,
at the height of the storm.
love never enters by doors,
but steals through windows...
speaks fluently in the language of hurt.
is the beginning of wars,
and their only end.
wine bittered with poison,
water still and pure!
rises in flight without warning,
tears the gutters from the roof.
shouts with silence,
and rhymes poverty's nails.
has its own prayers,
names its own gods...
becomes the value of a life,
on eternity's table.
the hurricane that strokes,
the hunger that weeps.
love has its own scars,
digs its own grave with a fork!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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