Love indeed is blind

A Poem by Roger Quennell

This is a poem I wrote during the winter. I’m quite fond of it, so I thought I would share it. It feels a bit strange, though; I write quite a bit, but I’ve never shown my work to anyone before. It’s here now I suppose, regardless…

Beautifully painted house

A house once built with grandest cost,
With every surface painted, glossed,
Now stark reminder, nearness lost
—For death doth follow frost.

The ancients past that gave our name,
Through hallowed halls with purpose came,
To kindle coals, igniting flame
—A light for us to claim.

Neglected gifts, in time, decay,
And stubborn eyes make night from day,
Self-hidden lies all pave the way
—Ourselves, we do betray.

A house decayed from misused time,
With broken walls of crumbled lime,
‘Twas plaster mixed with sweat, sublime
—Once upon a time.

Thus time reveals all hidden woes,
Foundations sink and tension grows,
Unquestioned answers, evil sows
—Turning friend to foe.

Fine mirrored glass, now broken panes,
Reflections cut, cause tears to rain,
They show the truth, the bitter pain
—Yet, looking glass we blame.

Thus, lost by us and our own kindred,
Brilliance, wit, and youth, all ended,
Now that life and death are blended
—Loss is comprehended.

So stranded in my home and palace,
Stricken by the darkest malice,
Called by me—no wonder—“Alice”
—Named but ever faceless.

A beating heart now left behind,
For all is gone that gleamed and shined,
Now lost, alone, I’ve come to find
—Love indeed is blind.


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