Blind My Own

How utter me the bitter seed of curse
is soiled in the happiest of times
of gay rhymes and thoughtless verse
which do not ever seem to last and
even seldom pass again me by
for want of peace’s neutrality
do I hold my chest at bay
and scare its equine feels away
by speaking not of love’s renown
whose points the poet has ever crowned
his head and filled it full
with lies of love
and eyes of wool,
but as for mine
I blind not love but mostly hate
or something quieter perhaps but no less great
which dons its ancient robes and waits
and waits,
indeed, all it does is fucking wait.