Love Untitled

 
Fuck poetry!... what’s the point?    
 
Impotent ink inadequately filling flimsy filament  
poorly-put prose poured out in pixilated impressions.  
 
Let’s burn it all.  
 
Only in the remains will we find the love we endeavor to ink  
the love written within the rage-filled rantings of wrath  
flouted in flowery rhymes intended to (un)flower the sometimes (un)suspect  
the love delineated line-by-line by the daft using non-descript descriptors  
handed out haphazardly in hallucinogenic harangues  
scribbled then discarded in the scrapyards of cities sloshed on the same substance  
the love lurking within handsomely-handcrafted haikus  
and stumbled upon as seamless strings of coherent incoherence in word nooks and prose crannies.  
 
But let’s no longer sit here and needle together more words. No more scribbling ferociously, never quite making it to the point.  
 
Let’s torch it all.
 
Out of the ashes, let us unearth the one wordless word  
render poetry purportless  
and ensconce ourselves again in the hallowed hollow of  
love untitled.  
 
R.