love. me
by: R. Tissun Oan

The love poem came
as a hard act to follow.
I approached it, abused it,
left it there dead.
Screaming and squealing,
I heard it wallow.
I came back,
and abused it some more.
What is it like,
when the love is over?

I enjoyed myself.
The game even more.
The bastard's dead, I couldn’t be merrier.
Your nature is here, now I must go.