Stale Love

Writing a sonnet is hard. This is my first attempt and maybe my last. It's valentines day, I'll let you decide whether or not this sonnet is about the kind of love we celebrate on every feb 14. Its up to your own interpretation. Ha.

Stale Love

Thrust upward steel gray cliffs dusted with snow.

Sprawl wide like some primordial jawbone.

Hills roll and buck, and newspaper trees grow.

Beasts cry, a wolf emits its mournful moan.

Stars blink like countless eyes, moon frowns beside.

A lonely wind roams through a wilderness,

Skeletal and baron, mist forming spectral guides,

carefully ushering people, joyful yet oblivious.

A porcelain ribcage rots, flesh hanging like

Old leather, forgotten and thrown away.

 Each violent word is a splintered spike.

Hanging by a stale rope, watching it fray.  

Your companionship is a gray wasteland,

Eerie, cruel, ever depressing, and bland.