Love Is But A Cheap Flint

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.

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