"You're gonna get tired of me."
Does the flower tire of the sunrise?
The dignified return of that life-giving face,
A crude facsimile of your smile;
How could one tire of that?
Is beauty ever dulled by use?
Does the sheer effect of observation
Cause your elegance to somehow diminish?
How could one tire of that?
You dearest love, you aethereal muse,
You flawless stone cut from nature's sun-kissed tears,
The day I tire of you is the day my madness
Plucks me from this plane
And births me anew,
To again fall prey to your resplendence,
As the sun after each set.
Tired? Only of your absence.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
"You're gonna get tired of me."
Does the flower tire of the sunrise?
The dignified return of that life-giving face,
A crude facsimile of your smile;
How could one tire of that?
Is beauty ever dulled by use?
Does the sheer effect of observation
Cause your elegance to somehow diminish?
How could one tire of that?
You dearest love, you aethereal muse,
You flawless stone cut from nature's sun-kissed tears,
The day I tire of you is the day my madness
Plucks me from this plane
And births me anew,
To again fall prey to your resplendence,
As the sun after each set.
Tired? Only of your absence.