What cry wafts through my desolate garden on this subconscious morn?
Could it be the stray cat who sighs dead in the mountain lion's hungry teeth on the distant hill?
Perhaps I perceive the relentless gnashing of termites gnawing tirelessly at my withered foundation?
Alas 'tis neither; for today is the Day of Valentine,
and what I hear must be the trembling of Intimacy and Romance,
dressed in their banal trappings of candy red, bemoaning their impending unveiling.
How can the young lovers promenade on the street below
deaf to their dying cries that now blare through the day like a crashing train?
And how, as the daylight wans, can those lovers lie together,
impotent and oblivious, as Valentine's evil symphony's opening ostinato shakes and cracks the black clouds asunder?
And as His Day gives in to Night, do they not hear the sudden shrieking silence as the accursed Valentine, Bastard Son of Love, lifts the glittering scarves from the, alas!, wrinkled heads of his hated stepsisters?
Behold now, Lovers, the rotten corpses of your fallen idols!
Some may be immune to the boiling stench or the scorching horror of this fatal apparition.
Yet all will succumb to the damning truth, the emptying of the heart:
That this Valentine's Night will neither fade nor falter,
But will fester and swell
In its red glare
For all time.