Poems and love songs breed dead dreams,
strangled by weeds, face down in the ground
with no roses to mourn them.
Singers are poets that croon
(if you happen to lose your little heart to their tune)
and poets are false prophets -
true love will last forever
if they care to write it,
but not if you swallow the lines...
yet, they always do.
We all have a place
set for us in the shade
in our own private garden of weeds.