What is this you speak of, this thing called love?
Is it the gentle flutter of winged doves?
Is it an ocean, as rage incarnate?
Or is it the evening, peaceful and late?
Is it like lightning, bright, shocking to behold?
Or is it the thunder, with its deep rolls?
Is it so tender, a soft, fragile sound?
Or is it brutal, neverending lust?
What if it's a story, or just a spark
That'll vanish faster than a skylark?
Just tell me, gently, what it is you mean
Because I don't quite understand, you see.
YOU ARE READING
Ransoms and Ramblings
RandomDumping unnecessary thoughts on people since 2017! (less urgent than updates in DragonNadder's Updates book. Please go there for more important information than these ramblings.) Contains "late-night" dumps of randomness, short stories, poetry, and...
