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Love sometimes can be greater than any sea or ocean The notion of love itself can be blind and unkind to the heart of the soul. The pain of it rains in a bowl of fire dressed in the attire of burning flames games as of a needle piercing deep into the skin, so thin like wine rose of blood trickels onto the floor of wood, solid are the walls trapped inside the hurt and anger of danger yearning about like a cat to stalk its prey, pray for the horror to be ceased and let it die as if the sun soaked in its moister till it cracked and fell into pieces of glass slicing so thick into an open heart ripping every sensible part of tears that whistles on the smoothness of a delicate face that embraces the past of happiness joy and now pain. Surviving every part, bit by bit until it explodes into a furry of saddness buried in the sorrows of what was called, love.
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