Our pens oft bleed our souls tears on tattered parchment
Embalming our fleeting anguish to vent even the flux of time,
The fragrance of her heart still so lingers, beneath the quiet breaths of
my soul-I often see her whispers kneading the tempered clay of my affection,
Enchanting the passion as it drums within me,
Oh don't tempt me with love,
No,
It is not easily dispensable
And once appropriated, not easily dispensed with
No,
Don't decorate your thoughts with hope,
Life does not shy in teaching its morbid message,
Nor does this wretched world scruple as it fans our folly
We are mortals and time will inform us of this,
Let us not imagine of life what will come only in passing,
Time shouldn't entertain itself with your pretenses,
How can I begin to offer that which I've yet to possess
Nor does fantasy beget reality...
No,
Don't decorate your thoughts with sordid hope,
Instead lather them with at least piecemeal affection
It is this that fathers love,
And steals the rhapsody of
Our hearts...
