Love is a pitiful blind man, 
walking among murderers and thieves, 
reaching out a yearnig hand, 
only to be slashed until he grieves. 
He topples, sobbing with pain, 
pouring blood across my mind, 
leaving a reddish-black stain, 
only becoming more blind. 
And absorbed, is the pain, 
by my presumably ugly form. 
Memories, racking my brain, 
are of her from whom I was torn. 
He has passed his pain to me unseen, 
as he started to die on mental streets, 
and left me thinking of my queen, 
every time my crushed heart beats. 
Still he lurks and crawls, 
around in my mind, 
pitching, staggering into walls, 
and the bastard still is blind. 

March 25 & 26, 1985