A Poem

 After all what does it really mean.

The rising up of passion.

The boiling of blood.

The stirred ash of desire .

 After all

What is to be expected

What can be gained.

This has all been felt before.

 longing is nothing new.

 An easily recalled state of being

Certainly not surprising

At most an inconvenience or

 slightly uncomfortable.

No worries though.

Not to worry.

After all

Feelings are easily washed away.

Swept under the rug.

Hidden in the dark corner of the closet.

Swirled away in dark amber liquid..

 Where these types of things belong.

Hidden from sight and forgotten.

One can’t fret too much about it.

After all.

 After all

These words have been said before

 None of them are new or

Fresh
 Or even mildly remarkable.

Really of no significance at all

 To one so jaded.
So time worn.
So  weary of words .....

Words and their myriad of meanings.

The way that they drone  on and on.

Creating sound.

Lacking meaning .

Solving nothing.

So that in the end they really mean less.

Ever so much less than nothing.

Nothing.

After all………