They called it Love

Everytime I opened that letter I read those repeated words

Scattered across the page without depth just emotionless

How do I know it's not all fictitious, invented and senseless?

You do not have meaning; only knowledge of what society has defined

The concepts of languaje in which we feed into to have that sensation

When in reality nothing exist.

So where does this character stand? Not next to me

It can be that manipulating and deceiving knife on the counter

Or it be that brush of wind waiting to elevate you to paradise 

 Before writing it on this paper as a responce to that letter

I am certain not to fall into its arms; it has to be shown

I guess that is the real treasure.