benches

Love is an empty bench.
Created by man,
Yet it’s obligations permeate
Throughout time,
Without the conscious decision (intention?)
To suspend ignorance.

Love is an empty bench.
It does not grow cold when winter hits,
Or warm when spring returns.
It may wear overtime
If abused,
Made only for those
With mistakable motives.

Love is an empty bench.
Honed to be completely utilitarian
To those imperfect wanderers
Unaware of the culmination
Of their unwavering confusion
On the matter at hand.

Love is a stable bench.
It rests, stagnant,
Left on the assumption
It will varnish heat
Once more.

/

Built with a purpose in mind,
not for those with purpose.

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