It might be said:
Tumbling down my treacherous, traitorous tower,
Of hope I thought was the greatest petal of my flower.
Revisioning my thoughts
For the hour of my death was a second from naught.
The flower of petals,
Of dazzling, daunting life,
Of elegant, empathetic love…
I never realised all of such would be tough
To truly clench,
Hold in my eyes,
When every other petal was crowded with lies
Which confidently smiled and smirked in my face,
To irrevocably love this life with haste,
To grin at the tower, smoothened with glace.
The flower of formidable life,
Of practical love,
Of transposing colour.
Vibrancy spread by its central, salient stigma.
Confessions of my imperfection,
My disinterest in life,
In simulated lovers,
In sensual, plastic, flexible hardcovers.
And so I glanced at
The departing turret,
The surreal, realistic, reality of life,
Of people who live,
But do not really live,
For the petal which fell,
Decided never decide to give
Its distinctive love to anybody other
Than the traitorous hand which pulled,
Tore, and Crushed its heart,
And left it to stumble upon its death.
He once asked me, "What is love?"