Each love a grain of rye,
nurtured to nourishment
then consumed or left to rot.
In each case gone to baser matter.
Each love gone awry
makes me wonder what its meant
to have all the care I've wrought
rust as though it never mattered.
Each time my feelings vie
between solace and torment,
torn by the battle fought
with hopes all dashed and scattered.
Each time tears fill my eyes
an idea seeks out firmament;
it might be an easier thought
to not care and just be mad at her.
Written 14 March 1998
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