Wallace Dean LaBenne

Illusions Of Love

Professor, therapist, author and poet.






Romantic love is more than blind, it paints what isn't there
Creates illusions in the mind, till truth does witness bare

The body pulse, a pounding beat; orchestral, breathing score
Staccato sounds, erstwhile elite, now music to abhor

The brain with thoughts considered bright, original and new
Are viewed now as hackneyed and trite; illogical, untrue

The voice a lilting melody to harmonize and sing
Is now a mere cacophony, a harsh, discordant ring

The smile a glowing radiance inspiring joyful flame
Has now become expedience, frowning and surly shame

The grace of movement is effete; life's dance will now deplore
Where once a rhythm moved the feet, they falter on the floor

The sculpture seen as comely art, appearance shared by none
Now unattractive, torn apart; repulsive and undone.

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