Your Art of Love

You don't assign your heart as the

Gatekeeper of your true desires.

Though, you know you should.

It need not prove itself worthy of such honor,

For the only honor be whom gets past the gate.

Instead, the privilege lies densely in your eyes.

Which, ironically enough, are meticulously wired to your simple pleasures.

Through this fallacious keeper,

Everything--yet nothing is registered.

Lustful intentions are hurried in,

While the uncertain--yet more promising--

Glance through the bars,

Only to be overlooked.

Your art of love is like a house of cards.

No matter what grand height you manage to reach,

You fail to recognize that it will collapse sooner or later.

Or perhaps you always remember

But hope to just forget.

You turn a blind eye to your keeper's vileness.

And conceal its true colors with your backdrop of patterns

That "happen at this age".

Its's almost comical, really.

You find yourself looking for love in all the wrong places.

Once judged passers with similar agendas.

They're helpless, you said.

And now, you are too.