Love Is Just Another Word For Pain

The elliptical-shaped lily garden in our front yard
looks like a burial plot,
with snow draped over the arching mound.

Lurching forth
from the earth
like a body,
predisposed.

I sit in the hazard of the afternoon sun,
wilted roses to my right.
What becomes of the fire in my blood
that turns to poison in the absence of passion?

Embedded and burdened with memories,
a quick grasp at reason,
an appeal to logic
is my only saving grace.

Tying a loophole thru this heart—
I knot the seams where it continues to fray.
My heart is with you, on the wings
of the most dove-like seagull,
when to be at peace is a far cry.