It is very difficult to choose,
That which you can not afford to lose,
Which is the rose you behold, when your eyes are closed
Whose thorns draw blood, when your arms do not hold
It is the dream that you whisper, but never dare told
The last name you will call before your lips turn cold
A visceral ruse and an abstract muse
The only soul which you wish to fuse.
Days turns to months as you delve and dwell
on the opportune moment to hold and tell
Your heart of hearts that its only choice
Is to embrace the music of the inner voice.