I have been waiting for this moment to inform you, love
Is a feast of pain and loneliness, wrapped in erratic
Wilderness; weaving your grave into a cold and hallowed
Ground; it is a brutal unrest, in full view of indifferent
Glares, plucked from coiling lies, vainly seeking the
Nuptial song. Love is a sexual drift, the clumsiest disguise
Of narcissism; a few orgasmic trickles, a dust to sight, a prelude
To plaintive and misshapen whine;
   an unexacting spawn
Of feelings, feeding an infantile lack of balance. Love
Is a guilty stare of fears and an intransigent quest for hate;
An old celestial order, a curse of time, like death.

T. Byram Karasu, MD is the author of Rags of My Soul