Post by Shakespeare on Dec 5, 2002 21:53:44 GMT -5
[glow=red,2,300]Love...[/glow]
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A minute gone past to thee is but a leaf drifting by in the wind, yet a minute for me seems like a day, for there are many days in a minute for me. O what is love? Conveyed in such a way that I being myself, and you being you, have to find a way to explain such. Thusly love hath run upon a scale stretching farther then the earth is round yet no one can so classify love. Is love a feeling, a sensation of unimaginable nature, or perhaps a picture, for others view as they stroll down the street and give'th but a care less for the world. To all love is but a different stone in what seems to be the same river, looking, feeling different to all and each is own. Mine own love is truly mine own. I am but the saddest ret'chèd in town, sick with love. I hath been asked to describe my love for her, and yet all I can say is.... "I love her like a sickness, and it's cure together."
Thou ask me, "are thee lately humbled in the act of love?" I answer aye, but it dost leave me an unhappy soul for I may not wrap my arms around this love and call her mine own. A love that carries a feather through the air, dancing at the mercy of the wind, beautiful and spiteful and thus leaves me alone at times in muddy water to soak up my grief.
Because of this I feel as though I have lost my gift...
Words, words, words...once, I had the
Gift...I could make love out of words as
A potter makes cups out of clay, love
That overthrows empires, love that
Binds two hearts together come
Hellfire and brimstones...for sixpence a
Line, I could cause a riot in a
Nunnery...but now.. I have lost my gift,
It's as if my quill is broken.
As if the organ of the imagination
Has dried up.
As if the proud tower of my genius has
Collapsed.
… What do you think?
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A minute gone past to thee is but a leaf drifting by in the wind, yet a minute for me seems like a day, for there are many days in a minute for me. O what is love? Conveyed in such a way that I being myself, and you being you, have to find a way to explain such. Thusly love hath run upon a scale stretching farther then the earth is round yet no one can so classify love. Is love a feeling, a sensation of unimaginable nature, or perhaps a picture, for others view as they stroll down the street and give'th but a care less for the world. To all love is but a different stone in what seems to be the same river, looking, feeling different to all and each is own. Mine own love is truly mine own. I am but the saddest ret'chèd in town, sick with love. I hath been asked to describe my love for her, and yet all I can say is.... "I love her like a sickness, and it's cure together."
Thou ask me, "are thee lately humbled in the act of love?" I answer aye, but it dost leave me an unhappy soul for I may not wrap my arms around this love and call her mine own. A love that carries a feather through the air, dancing at the mercy of the wind, beautiful and spiteful and thus leaves me alone at times in muddy water to soak up my grief.
Because of this I feel as though I have lost my gift...
Words, words, words...once, I had the
Gift...I could make love out of words as
A potter makes cups out of clay, love
That overthrows empires, love that
Binds two hearts together come
Hellfire and brimstones...for sixpence a
Line, I could cause a riot in a
Nunnery...but now.. I have lost my gift,
It's as if my quill is broken.
As if the organ of the imagination
Has dried up.
As if the proud tower of my genius has
Collapsed.
… What do you think?
j/k lol he made it... he's a weirdo like that ;D lol j/k
