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love? phooey
Folder:
All Thats Left. look, it's only sentiment,
it means nothing, but for the value it carries,
to the mortal, skin cherishing, misguided by the light of their own worries,
buried under the degree's of a need,
and we're so many.
oppose yourself,
perfect some semblance of who you are,
and that which you are not, lose your identity,
get caught up in what you want,
i admire your courage, though you are lost.
love is what it cannot represent,
in truth, a reality, of dream,
folding around your head, for the sake of illusion,
making you less than, because you don't have it.
the torture of soul can mean only this:
love is to die, for what you believe in,
as it might never happen.
faith in love and what i can do to remove you from you,
is the way it appeals, to your frail heart mood.
seduced in the eloquence of love, and what it is,
the mere thought and word can sometimes sicken,
if you have tasted it and it is not what you expected.
we now all too well though, don't we?
