Comatose

Love is not dead;
It only hangs directionless
in the night's thick air;
It hangs low with the mist
lazily touching sidewalks,
looking for company in the empty streets
in diffident cats.

Love is not dead;
It only looks around for answers
in the haze of the cold misty air,
where clarity has been deliberately blurred.
It questioningly gazes at the lonely moon,
who herself knows not for whom she shines,
while dogs howl in protest.

Love is still alive
As a lump in the throat,
As a sudden gush in the neck
And in the emptiness of the heart;
It blocks conduits in the body,
which beg for catharsis.
I plead with Cupid to remove the dart.