Thursday, December 15, 2005


No more love songs,
no more games;
embracing hell,
we shed our names.
Time only for
truth’s halogen glare;
no pretense now
that we care.

Time but enough
to rape each other:
who killed their lover.
No more love songs,
no more time;
and no regrets
for the crime.

Tomorrow’s dead,
tomorrow’s dead;
throw away
what’s left unsaid.
No more love songs.

Sell my heart,
buy my time;
have no regrets
for the crime.
Give away
my every song,
every word
that I got wrong.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

Well, I suppose it is recognizable that this is a song rather than a poem (in the literary sense, though I consider all songs lyrics to be a form of poetry). Obviously not one of the folky things I write and perform these days...and I haven't time nor inclination to do the rock band again, at least at this point, so it will probably just sit sans riffs and tune...or rewrite (as it is still rough as a lyric).

No comments: