The Playwright

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On the second day, the bread is hard,
Love is harder:
How to maintain what with effort was got?
Would s/he bat an eyelid at a bastard?
Trip over the paint? In spite of the Beach Boys’ singing
Send out all the wrong vibrations?

There it begins. You hear the curious sound
Of wings flapping out the
Back door of your memory floor:
That is the unmapped path through which the once frostbite
Romance will go.
Knowing all these would, you know, come to pass, I yearn for more.

Will there be some suburban avenue
That I may not tread just to win your favour?
Will I lock horns with a cart-bull and bray like an ass
If that makes your temper any much the wiser?
Most probably I will. Not that, in life and in love,
I haven’t had my fill. But, I will.

And with an undying chalk / choke, on a hopeful wall,
I cross out the number of times you
Touched my heart.
In your life’s great romance you are the playwright
Of that suspenseful script. In the next line
I should be kissed. Or whipped.


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