Tag: Poet

Love begins with such tenderness –

Even the tears are made of joy!

What wonder it holds in that time,

Oh, what magic it does employ!

The many things that irks love now

Were what held away all its fears.

Who could truly know that sadness

Would supercede past joy in tears?

Each twist in the body was seen,

As some Grecian statue of old;

Now twists are seen with angst and pain

And addressed with manners so cold.

Love glimmered like burnished gold,

When it was young and fresh and new;

But gold doesn’t oxidise with time

And take on shades of green and blue.

Carpe diem, the poets implored,

They chased love and it chased them, too,

This chase has gods fall weary,

Then what the poet, or me or you!

Hubris is a part of all love,

Love declares it rules no ego;

But most of love fades over time,

Under pride and lust’s undertow.

Love, they say, shows its truer form

As it grows with time, some say years,

Some say it lengthens slow or fast

And rebounds truest when death appears.

Love distorts due to other loves,

Experiences are benchmarks here;

Doubt’s a seed people love to sow,

Watered by your own unseasoned fear.

Needless to say, love confuses

All its promises, in the end,

It isn’t love, if fate and time ask

And the imposter agrees to bend.