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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