Love is a dress you wear in the morning to dance in when nobody can see you
It is a forgotten fable, the only true legend
Love is the ringing in your ears that persists hours after you’ve gone to rest
Love makes minstrels of men in cages
Praise taken for genius
Love is a double-exposed picture of superimposed desire
Cyanide gone straight to single souls
The loved speak a language untouched by most
We the free, the kinetic word breakers and blind sea-makers
Hold jealously the cards of our post and presumption
The circean appeal of fidelity
The pomegranate hung on wormwood bough
The household gods of tradition
Becoming the malefactor of the love we first wanted
The truth is that love is the lorn gift of circumstance
A mystery imposed on righteous fools
Love is nothing that I could write in such dark and fixed ink