Love is a pall bearer Carrying the dead to graves Mine are beneath trees By soil, merlot and half smoked Marlboro’s. Love is a promise Woven from scarlet. Mine was pure Worshipped by a Goddess Who healed my heart To destroy it. Love is a word Its only definition is Who it takes Who it leaves Who it breaks and Who grieves. I am a griever The once believer the broken, the unspoken. But most of all I am unlovable, Complex. Dark. Lonesome. Sad. Angry, And left to think of four children Who will not be calling me Dad, Bastards make the best Fathers And I am love's bastard, Wanting a womb to sleep in to feel warmth again from a woman.