Wounded
You can not get more hurt
in wars, in accidents or in disasters
than in love, when disappointment
is but followed by more disappointments,
when the wounds are only opened deeper
and when nothing can be healed,
for punctured soul can not be bandaged,
and all is only worsened
time and time again
in something like a constant hellish repetition
which gets on and on, gets worse,
more cruel and more unjust.
Then enters the banal ridiculous situation
that your love is changed to hate,
and thus the irrepairable self-torment
only worsens in its utter pain.
And still you hesitate to make the operation
to just end it all, disrupt and close up the relationship,
to kill your feelings and seal up that chamber in your soul,
since still the memories are there
of how it started in its glorious beauty,
- only to be crushed by a reality
which always was infallibly insensitive
and ruthless in its cursed sordidness,
which in its murderous insensitivity of unawareness
is worse and crueller than death.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 478 times
Written on 2007-11-29 at 10:44
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