A memory by any other name is but gnawing death, For alike a rose, beauty engulfed by unyielding flames, With flames turns a gallant rose to darkened ash, And too engulfs my fair remembrance to shame, Of what once a fair maiden - poisoned by the touch of I, What once a fair moment devoured to deceitful ash, To which tears shed to wash away what once a rose, And sings its tragic tunes fading love to hate in clash. But a memory - thankfullingly bestowed as Someone's gift, Blessed with an art of transformation by which a masked-******, To which builds the perfect dream - an unreachable heaven, 'Fore Dove to whom flies towards thee and reminds thee the truths. A thought, a dream, a fair moment by which truth had lit, Hand-in-hand by which arises in false romance, A devouring love to which by passions aflame, Unknowingly leaving the fair-burning flames to commence.
A poem on how the passions of love is like a flame that also burns love itself - and on the memory-ghost.