Is love but a word,
fake and flimsy like a paper ring on a finger?
I heard the poet knows best.
They’ll hold you and hug you forever, with words.
Oh those lovely words; like satin sheets cool upon your body.
Gently and softly they kiss you, hug you. But everyone gets these kisses and hugs.
The sun is hot now,
pools of tears all dried up.
Dirt and mud crack deeply, where lovely thistles grow.
Not a life for paper, rings and kisses.
You bare yourself,
and fall to the satin sheets of words.
You feel the coolness, in the hot summer sun.