The honey that didn’t come from a bee.
Sweetheart that was more than heart shaped cookies.
Love was a beautiful thing to feel,
when Cupid wasn’t just bored with love’s usualities,
Or a pawn to Aphrodite’s hands and vengeful wishes;
the board, Beauty, on which she was the evil queen.

Lust was the red queen, the deck’s overrated piece.
Overrated because it only played; could never win.
The players in her team got played on feeling’s field.
What was the luster in mere arrows, intimacy with no meaning?

Then, the blind ones at temples, silver and gold, all they were seeking.
Temples of love like the congregation of Tinder and eHarmony.
Knights in ungodly armours whose love song was a bank’s ching-ching
Little power from the game as they never understood the field’s scoring.
Money was a stream, Love: the rock to hit for it to start gushing.
Like the biblical Moses who struck the rock instead of speaking.

Ah, the swallowers of words dare not be absent from this meeting.
Arrows to cupid, bullets to them designed for the weak and foolish.
Words were ammunitions, silence its shield, and love, a grenade only ever catastrophic.
The ones who broke Cupid’s arrow before it could even hit their broken pieces.

All were Cupid’s accidents, ill-timed shots that became causalities.
Arrows that flew in the opposite directions to Fate’s bearing.
Before the weapons of warfare, ever carnal made meaning,
And 'the roses are red, it was too good to be true', came calling,
Love was and is still a beautiful arrow to be pierced by,
When Cupid wasn’t being a winged baby, toying with love and arrows.

@that_writing_Aimee

© Aimee Distinction Joseph