‘Crimson Cupidon’ by Aneesha Roy 

There is no love.

Just the illusion of love

to be used and exhausted

till the last dregs then trampled

and smote with brickbats, thorns,

whatever’s handy.

The illusion simpers in the gutter

Or an asphalt pavement

Till it dries and shrivels up

Into an unusable monstrosity

To be peddled no more

For the fallen mortals have

Given up on the illusion and

have used and exhausted

and trampled some more

and all’s spent where the

losers are blind Samsons,

impotent and deranged

Lears and cross Timons

and it’s all a tragedy

with pain and hurt and

laceration and nothing

nothing

nothing

nothing

except a crimson cupidon.

An insubstantiality

A myth.

Less than nothing.

Poet’s Bio: Aneesha Roy is currently pursuing a degree in literature. She has been published in The Literary Yard, Ijagun Poetry Journal, Haiku Journal and Contraposition. She is a member of the editorial team of Ijagun Poetry Journal.