The Blue of Hearts

Blue is the truest love my heart can bleed.
Dreamt I once, the vintage wine of love to drink.
And through my lover’s veins my mind concedes
To her and her alone my heart in mystery, linked.
Throbbing within her heart of Bluest Blue,
Pouring forth from her veins of Redest Red,
Came sweet potions of contrivance, so my soul in nescience fed.
In this verdant garden a love of pain she nurtured and conceity grew.
The aristoi of complicity bleed needlessly a heart of Blue.
My heart bled deep a sorrow cloyed with lonesome fears,
Insensible, Red-rich love never yields to mortal tears.
Piteous is the love that yearns to find another true Blue of Hearts,
Learning always in endings, yearning always in beginnings.
My wishful, hungering soul was robbed of its Blue of Hearts,
For my love could never be Red. Colored in contrasts, love is ending.
Today ending, tomorrow beginning, life only pours cups of dread.
Now Gray is the color I drink, staying out of the paths of Red.