Love Is But A Cheap Flint
by Ruben Muniz
Servants line the halls of the seemingly rich man
whose smile hasn’t shown since he was a penniless hopeful;
Now his lips know only a grimace
and have met many women,
but he would build up his deck of cards
into a miniature bungalow and trade it
for the one ace of spades
who he couldn’t win over
because of pre-existing conditions
and his own sins.
The only skeleton in his closet
dons a white dress.
The music man plays his tune with a smile
and gets a roar from the crowd of onlookers
and leaves the stage at the night’s conclusion
with an empty feeling,
because his biggest fan never showed up.
So he goes home alone
drum sticks in hand
as his mind plays a percussive onslaught
of indifference, depression, and longing
for that big break to come, someday.
A dancer shines his shoes
and has moves that would impress a Russian ballerina,
and takes home another gold medal
to hang on one of his dozens of trophies
on his mantle.
He rips off his bowtie after the show
and throws it into his fireplace
and cries to himself
about that one move he just can’t seem to make his own.
A writer who has penned quite a few stories
in his day fears he will not live to see
his own perfect ending.
Deceptive emotions reign,
a tyranny of torturous thoughts
bombard their minds with angst.
It seems as if they’re fighting a war
that they were drafted into against their will;
with weary feet these men trudge on
not knowing if I’ll ever come home.
The spark comes and goes as if
love is but a cheap flint,
but the embers of their memories serve as emissaries
to reignite the flame in their minds of what could be.