Cupid's Foes
For thee who doth put pen to stone, is thee who cradles love, but not.
The purest heart of gold for one, is, as often as the waves do wake, found before it can be held. A heart may beat, but a mind must know, or winds shall sweep the worth of heart away. Forgetting all, a universe lay yet unfound, leaving the answer blank to the question, "So what the heck does that mean then?"
Putting a pen to love is perhaps a greater fallacy than the marriage of Asterix and Caesar. The reason lies in exactly what is carved, a surreal time. Silence leaves the cannons of mouths, blackholes fill the space of embraces, paper.
Heaven is brought so close, it is the shoes one wears...but what is the real of writing? An ant's worth of meaning.
The knaves attempting to tell love are subject only to poverty of the pen, for the lips of love, unable to kiss words, grace only those of Cupid's foes. Thus, its utterance of worth shall never leave my lips.
Nonetheless, the burn of desire would put me (and many others) to ashes for every page left loveless, blank, and uncaressed. Shining bright, the sun has found worth in skies and perhaps a sky of ink will let the shine of paper through. This is the colossus of what any person of letters can perform.
Thus, I will choose to spend the last of my ink engraving the greatest line possible by a meager me. I love thee
The purest heart of gold for one, is, as often as the waves do wake, found before it can be held. A heart may beat, but a mind must know, or winds shall sweep the worth of heart away. Forgetting all, a universe lay yet unfound, leaving the answer blank to the question, "So what the heck does that mean then?"
Putting a pen to love is perhaps a greater fallacy than the marriage of Asterix and Caesar. The reason lies in exactly what is carved, a surreal time. Silence leaves the cannons of mouths, blackholes fill the space of embraces, paper.
Heaven is brought so close, it is the shoes one wears...but what is the real of writing? An ant's worth of meaning.
The knaves attempting to tell love are subject only to poverty of the pen, for the lips of love, unable to kiss words, grace only those of Cupid's foes. Thus, its utterance of worth shall never leave my lips.
Nonetheless, the burn of desire would put me (and many others) to ashes for every page left loveless, blank, and uncaressed. Shining bright, the sun has found worth in skies and perhaps a sky of ink will let the shine of paper through. This is the colossus of what any person of letters can perform.
Thus, I will choose to spend the last of my ink engraving the greatest line possible by a meager me. I love thee
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