i was planning
impossible forevers
she was planning
her quick escape
and no matter how
often this repeats
my wheezing heart
remains nihilistic
yet stubbornly
hopelessly romantic

there is nothing
quite as pathetic
as a poet entering
the twilight years
doggedly determined
to find love again
only to bludgeon it
into a bruised canvas
for yet another round
of shitty odds to
another dead end road
down a winding series
of dark uneven hallways
in the slaughterhouse
where hope goes to die