The Letterpress

The words are bland, conspicuous and cold
A steely view of someone´s stoic soul
That wanted not the very thing it had.
Contemptuous and miserable and sad
They lie and say the timing isn´t right
But really they´re beleaguered with the blight
That tears away the sinews from the soul
And tricks them to believing they are whole
With nothing but the solitary self
That feeds them with an evanescent wealth.
Little do they know that when it dried,
That wellspring of the self-reliant life,
It vaporized the supple spirit too,
And shriveled now, it deigns to carnal rule.
Inked on paper now to kingdom come
Are epithets of lacerated love
The meter is mellifluous but stained
By meaning, like the verses, wholly blank
Don´t write me if ingenuine you be
False love and letters strange bedfellows seem
Just shutter all the pathways to the heart
Your words, and soul, die nobler in the dark.