As is my love with the only one,
Who would get this love token,
Referred to, as the golden paint's gone,
The words of the song are not sung,
Nor spoken.
Honeymoon Souvenirs
From when my love had just awoken,
Plaster of Paris from the plastered in Barca,
They hung on walls of our habitations,
In the first flat, as concession, the pride of place,
Over the years, they were relegated from walls to corners,
And then finally drowned in the other ornamentation on the book case,
When I left,
I half expected you to fight me for them,
But I had not read enough into their slow decline from favour,
Had not realised that I had projected our shared love,
Onto the Cherubs,
Their child like naivety and joyous expressions,
Like my own simple trusting nature,
Were just begging to be slapped.
When I asked If you minded if I took them,
I don't even think they merited a shrug,
And now their decapitated, crumbled remains,
Legs gone, Wings clipped,
Plaster exposed and gold paint chipped,
Hang like a grotesque trophy on my walls,
Of a love that's fallen asleep,
And will never cease from counting sheep,
And I am still attached,
To a choice of purchase,
I convinced myself we had both made.
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