Some things are not
What they seem
Is it a river or
Is it a stream?
When only perfection
Is seen in the eyes of love,
All is tender light,
But when love is
Doused in reflection,
Who are we really
Thinking of?
What is in sight?
A selfless act
Refracted by a
Selfish acquisition,
Which withers away to
Nothing, from its
Original position.
What heights,
We walk
To appease our hearts,
When hearts
Are almost never appeased.