what was it you were thinking?

a love song is ridiculous
when the moment of inception
has ceased to inspire,
has soured
and left no means of verifiable support
to identify just what it was that transpired

no means to raise memory
as a surrogate for the actual melody that
was felled by eventual matters that were irreconcilable

vaguely recognizable
the love that inflamed another
now refused, unopened or better yet
barely considered

this refusal,
registered by
clenched fist of arrows and mugwort,
stalks realms where no logic is needed
where everyone who learned the words initially
is invited back again
appropriate or not

the excess members
bandy around the melody
flailing in between the moments
that swell the places meant for uncovering
and invoke the words
to this battered melody

the lips once soft and sweetened by the melody
are left with an apopleptic taste intact

the melody of our song is banished
the sentiments aging, rot in a cabinet of past affections

pouring honeywine
made on cool spring evenings
out in the gutter,
only to find the song
wet, disheveled and broken

clasped in two palms
the bastard melody is brought back to the cabinet
propped up and
referred heretofore
as a misfired emotion