The brokenness, the madness,

the sorrow and utter sadness.

I loathe these days in agony

of the thoughts spoken incoherently.

These words have taken hold of her life,

and my strives do not aver her strife,

Shattered glass amidst broken hearts,

healing hands can't fix these glaring faults.

 

How do I continue, what should I say?

Who should I call to, to whom should I pray?

No one hears me, no one cares,

I'm left alone to weep and wallow.

Love is so distant , so close;

it beckons me forward, into the abyss it throws.

What is love? What fantasy is this? 

It is not wonderous and certainly is not glorious.

It is stark and cruel,

Unabating in its relentless creed.

What horror, what dismay,

what incredulous yet marvelous dismay.

 

It will devour, it will consume,

but fear itself is on the throne.

Fear of failure? Fear of loss?

Instead, a fear of progress, a fear to impress?

My soul is gripped by fear, and this fear is the fear to love.

 

But it does not end there,

the story is incomplete.

Fear alone is my rival

and solely him shall I defeat.

What then of love? Who then is love?

Love is precious, given from above.

 

Love is patient, love is kind,

it does not envy, and it does not boast.

Careful in consideration,

and fruitful manifestation,

fo the beautiful coronation

for my soul's glorification.

 

It was lost and it was found,

it was thrown away, yet retrieved.

It withstood the test of time,

and it will withstand your fiery wrath.