Yesterday in the cafe a waitress lamented something to me about how her own things had driven love off.
I instantly detected some hurt and resignation and felt sorry for her. I can understand these kinds of things and people. But I have no patients for people that complain and blame and make excuses about lost love, or anything for that matter. They're getting by alright, they don't need my consoling.
But anyway I walk out of the cafe and forgot about it until I was driving on the yard last night, and this poem of sorts came to me. Here it is.
Love is a cruel thing.
People need it so bad it hurts them.
But I suppose that experience is the most valuable for all love can be.
What is love that has known no lost?
It must be very cheap and very brutish.
Brent
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