Poesía - 2

Merely seconds on hearing the sounds,

of chords and pipes of drunks,

remnants of a passion I’d once be proud to feel;

of a voice by vice and the beauty of rhymes undone,

I again find myself at the terrible empty lines,

and I have nothing to say,

not one word of beauty, nor one I could possibly mean.

And yet, all these glimpses of grief, of a

crazy love, or a stab of words rather unsaid;

for my sweet love is marred; I know we feel,

just the exact same thing, her eyes, or

a smile that strokes my heart, her words,

they all confess, alas, always by a

liquor-softened heart. How can I possibly

comply with a sacred vow of one, when

she’s not one, but her splitting mind

drives my soul to a hurtful cry.