Love is a burning flame.
Where children imitate its warmth, teens unknowingly light the match of temptations, and adults of many kinds begin to dip their fires into a pit of water.
Love is a burning flame.
It's flying residue of orange embers are the sweet lullabies of chilling words that drift my sulking heart to sleep solemnly.
Love is a burning flame.
Where it burns the outstretched eager hands and yet warms the skin of those that simply want to bask in its presence; absorbing the warmth it gives as a gift.
Love doesn't have one form.
Love is a rolling river.
Where children dance and giggle against its shores of hope and grab a loving guardians hand; pulling them into the chilled waters of happiness.
Love is a rolling river.
Where helpless falling teenagers only step their unsure feet in; afraid that the current of their hearts melody will be too strong and it will carry them away with the tides.
Love is a rolling river.
Where adults are too caught up with the children playing in the shallow pools that they never see the one that calls them "perfect" climb out of the water.
Love doesn't have two forms.
Love is the sweet pollen of a flower.
Where children grasps at its petals and rip their essence from their creator just so they can hand the organism to a special loved sibling.
Love is the sweet pollen of a flower.
Where teenagers squeal in fear of the bee that buzzes around their ears and run from the tiny little fury creature that only had a hunger for curiosity.
Love is the sweet pollen of a flower.
Where husbands give wives a bouquet of flowers and the wife lifts the plant to her nose and she inhaled deeply.
The falling leaves of autumn mixed with the remembrance of summer against the toes of spring which likes to chase and follow winter; they are all connected by an endless cycle.
A cycle that has been in act for centuries. A treaty that was handed down from the gods above and signed by Mother Nature, this cycle is not something to temper with.
Do not touch the turning clock of fate. For love is what connects the red string of fate to the thumb of a man and to the pinky of a woman.
It is forbidden to cut the string. For the creator of such a cycle would surely fall in despair over their failure.
Do not break the cycle. Or you will find an alternate reality to where love has never been an emotion in the mind.
YOU ARE READING
A Girl's Collection
PoetryThis book isn't a story. This is in fact a collection poems that I have written myself. These are all different pieces that I have created over the course of years and I wanted to share them with you all. Many poems are deep and sad. Making many vie...
