So love decays

I stand in all ugliness in the bottom of murakami's well . You draw a line , a brush stroke and the staircase opens up . The dream song marches ahead , climbs the stairs and vanishes into thin air. I had wanted to write sensuous love songs instead end up writing ugly stories which no one will read . The words will rot and spread their odour , sometimes , may be when they are still within my throat , in my mouth and have not yet traveled to the tip of my fingers , to come down sliding on the blue paper. They will rot , as must all things which are alive and then no more. So love decays.