You are in the strings of a violin
you are in the smell of a desert
you are the masterpiece which a painter nearly died making
you are the face of my cat, innocent, caring and warm
and yet, you're the bomb which blew my insides to pieces
the greats say its natural for you are but a rose with thorns
and they made the *****, the blood and the pain, the norm to live and die for
they say he sent you for us, and you work as mysteriously as he does
so its a sin for us to judge, for maybe you are too complicated as such
but for me now as i see, you are but my cat with a tiger's face and nothing much
you are a parasite, you breathe in me, and yet you think you're free
and yet i am the root that holds the tree which you are growing
so why not sail together but on your own you are rowing
you are not deaf so speak yourself, and let me see you clear
for you are too naΓ―ve to steer my boat which you have already sinking
so dear love, let my mind do some thinking, for titanic was romantic enough until old wood started stinking