I so rarely do poetry. This is from half a year ago. |
Note: this poem was not written with anyone in mind. I have no idea if what I say in it is true or not. It's just supposed to be different than the ticky-tacky multitudes of fire-based love poems. ::: They say love is like a blinding flame, It hits like the morning sun It drops, takes away your breath Like a shot from a loaded gun. They say love burns like matches lit, like fireworks down inside Grabs you in its talons and as a phoenix, flies. But I know true, and so do you, That that is not the case For those who liken it to fire doom it to that pace. Love is as the ice in spring, Beautiful but cold Slowly changing as it melts and as the days grow old, it takes on forms yet never seen, as the air throws off the chill. But as the day grows older the ice doth changeth still. But times goes by, and by and by, The ice has gone away And in its place, the woundrous face of springtime out to play. Though soon the days will wane, and the flowers leave the plains the warmth of spring stays with us as a memory and as truth And it will keep us warm through the winter. |