Drunkenness in a reckless love, knowing the true fragrant of love.
The blackness of  love, the whiteness of love.
The dead love, the alive love.
The desperate love and the forgotten love.

He went into love blinded and deaf.
He never lost faith in the delight of the song of love.

The Poet old hands uses pen, paper and thoughts keeping faith alive in the plight of love.
He knew that love is a careless child and promises easily broken.

He bared his soul, laid nude in soft sheets and warm blankets with his mistress, knowing she was
too wild to be held. She would flee the warm bed into the cold of the Winter wind.

He did not blame the kiss. He did not blame the boldness of her touch. He remembered her pale
skin whiter than the Winter snow. The warmth of her long and lingering kisses.

She sang the song of love unkept and not owned. Her words were just gratitude for the long slow
dance, the sweet wine and the nights in the liberty of sweet bliss. He  caressed her soft smooth
skin and she purred like a kitten. She whispered. Love is not dead my Poet. The love is just sleeping.
Resting and waiting for a reason and purpose to come alive.

The old Poet wrote down some words.
Ring the bells, the love is dead.  Then he wrote.
Flowers will fade.
Sorrow will fall upon the willing heart.
The empty shadows of the past can be revived with the pen and the paper.

He looked toward the sea and he looked at the full moon lighting up the night. He thanks
the moon and the sea for the charity of love.

Coyote/John Castellenas