When words have lost their meaning,
remaining shells with nothing more,
their letters with no goal, just tired, pale and leaning
against the doorpost like some old forgotten whore,
then poetry is dead and gone,
and language lost its purpose all together,
nothing to revive it can be done,
no words are saved, no single useful letter,
no meaning to the sentences is real.
If you don’t sense my words, the ones I wrote, are true,
you never know of how I bleed and feel,
nor that I am in love with you.
Could language just be messenger of love;
it would be all, it would be so enough.