What is love?

Love is unfaithful, painful, bleak,
Life is mundane, and yet divine,
A writer has the right to keep
Her memories for future lines.

My passions fall into a script,
The jaded silence takes its toll,
Since fate is not what you predict,
But what unravels, and unfolds,

And drives my heart beyond, above,
The flesh's forsaken by the soul.
And then you ask me: what is love?
It's an illusion - as we all.


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Удивительное стихотворение.

Аста Ленц   21.08.2019 11:35     Заявить о нарушении
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