R.M.R. (rhyme and reason)
he writes so knowingly
of the little deaths
that we all suffer
in the face of love
not for the young, he says
but the pain’s the same
perhaps even more so
the older that you get
it’s the summer of heartache
and mine’s been breaking
far too often
to find comfort or release
for each new tear
re-opens another
which hadn’t yet healed
from some other time before
there is no pattern
to the madness
everything’s just raw
gory in its openness
with pink flesh exposed
defenseless to another blow
from the presence of love