Words Are Doomed To Fail
These words, I know, are saturated with pyrite luminescence,
by T. M. Isaac
Bathing in that golden taint of faded essence;
Have I had only the resolve to let you know how I truly feel,
Free from the constraints of myopic metaphors,
coated with delirious gold,
I might have told you that I love you while it mattered.
These words, I know, are not what you have dreamt of,
Glazed with this honey-sickening aroma of waltzing vernal colors,
A blooming mélange of withering odors;
A barren anamnesis of strewn beauty,
Adumbrating your grace with flowers presented past their hour.
These words, I know, are masked with over thinking:
loose framed scenes, puss-scented sweet of loss;
not marble slates nor moss covered stones,
they're but exhausted echoes abused in a refrain.
Love alone cannot remove their phony jaggedness,
they stand bare, a fragment of intent since nothing else remains.