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L O V E
Love, in all its perfection;
Shall it ever come to me? When will I be satisfied by its touch? Who can know the pain it brings? And yet I plead, Leave not, fair dream. Come close, though thou art but a glimpsed breeze. I am slave to you, cruelity. For you I bare the whip willingly, fighting to live but by anticipation. Do you exist, I dare to ask? Or has man, crazed by loss of truth,
created you in dwindled hope? The perfect lie. To seek that of
eternal bliss, found but by eternal seeking. Any who lose hope of love have not known its soul. Love exists alone in the journey, hiding itself from all who doubt, revealed alone to those of faith. Seeking that which does not exist, we create our vision. Love exists only to those who believe. He who loses hope of love, selling young wine for gold, knows naught of true undying spirit. Content comes in many ways, but none shall last but love.
