The Objective

Love becomes obsession

Without reciprocation;

A wasted time, in relation

To what may sit adjacent

To a heart.

In time and all its trouble

Is circular migration,

Of what’s perceived as lost

To mere infatuation

Of a moment.

A day without fruition

Sits in expectation

Of a dream that has been cornered;

In time to be forsaken

By apathy.

There is no real division.

Only coarse decisions

Made in hasty moments

With retrofit revisions

That may be flawed as well.

Winning is never The Objective.