poetry

For Real Love..

It was as if the eyes saw too much, and now wore an old tattered patch,
a perfectionist
that hid a story behind,
a baggy gaze,
even the sign held,
spoke volumes,
toward the sweetest heart,
that went,
unsaved.
In desperate need of cosmetically​ getting it right,
The chamber was battered and beat down inside,
but outside it’s exterior,
was a sign,
that noticeably,
read, slave.
Will work extremely hard for love, for it’s blinders and giddy effects, the public displays,
hugs, kisses,
warm fuzziness,
and especially the meaningful,
held
eye contact.
As every passerby’s eyes,
met the sign’s sublime message, taking in it’s bold words,
With a need too step away, before subcumbing to a
laughter’s, urge.
There were condescending glares,
some with amazed sadness,
as if love,
had been unfair,
While others casually,
walked by,
unphased,
with arrogant stares.
As if love never met them,
never whispered there name.
Never allowed the embrace of it’s excitement,
unbothered by the enjoyment,
of balance that came.
As if love’s expression was outlandish, outdated,
no longer appreciatingly refined. Replaced by technology, fans, follower’s and thirst,
Making love, the furthest thought from closed minds​.
The sign was a sad reminder
how Love needed,
again, to be first.
Nothing lagging or detained,
it was high time,
too either,
fight on it’s behalf,
or invest, in its hearst.
As the sign only moved few, menacingly between travelers, as most,
pushed back with resistance,
rather then inhaling it’s ambrosia,
a breath taking anesthesia, with needs, too be, breathed in freely.
As the sign made them ponder, at least,
what it took, 
too keep the heart, from bleeding.

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By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright ©2017

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