In the beggining,
the flower grows and blooms into beauty unmatched and unrivalled by even the greatest of sights.
It matures and the flowers are so incredible it holds awe from all around.
However it slowly dies.
Leaf, by leaf.
Petal.
By
Petal...
Until there is nothing left.
That is love.
sung by the birds,
whispered in the breeze,
spoken by my words.
But, of course,
never trust a poets words,
harmonious but sharp like knifes edge.
They look so pretty but cut so deep,
like a razorblade into skin,
as the blood dances in the light,
trickling into a river.
This. Is. Love.
Not your rom com fantasy.
Not your daydream.
This.
Is.
Love.
Sweet and true,
the gentle curse...
It ends and starts again:
The Circle Of Love
This is the cluster of texts i sent to my friend during a bit of a mental breakdown. I decided to use it as my first poem on here as I enjoy it when put together like this