What’s The Worth Of A Poem If It Isn’t About Love?

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It was the driving rain took me it did, a little
tuck in your hands as it would be a tragedy if you broke a nail
but you look pale and i just carry on
666 verses for solitary confinement and 777 for all lost loves
and fifty blackest hearses for the loved and 23 flying doves
it would alright if there is something inside
for we took the purple horses and the bells that rang out
the sound of them flat against the low clouds and the snow
but, if i had something to hold, something to know
I can’t see. But in my ears i hear you scream
but i fell asleep again before you keep it all in
we rail at the locked gates. we wail our failure
our ignorance compounded, the lights are on
and everybody’s there. you see their shadows
and your smile on the picture didn’t seem real
didn’t seem right, my hands are red from the nearby traffic light
swipe and rewrite your message your useless prose
for the sick at heart and the made up hoes
your face said you were scared and this wasn’t what i thought
the nights are still lonely and the need for you is shattered
for whats the worth of poems if they aren’t about love?

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