The softest touch of a loving friend
To the deepest **** from a charaded blade
Where does blissful sensation make its end;
Converting to the obtrusive pain enfilade?

A subtle ambiance from a serene musician
To the daily news of grief and causality
When do loving whispers of mutual affection;
Fade into a harsh scolding from authority?

An untasted sweetness of rare delicacy
To the sour lingering of bitter temptation
How does the favored indulgences' nuancy;
Shift to a bland routine of daily recreation?

A picturesque sight of undying fantasy accord
To the shocking reception of a suicide note
Why do relations flow from their distant discord;
Into the desperate end that fate already wrote?

The lavishing waft of a motley gardens' aroma;
To the putrid scent sifting in the house of flies
What's the difference between this mundane coma;
And the ignored certainty we all despise?

Aren't pain and bliss really just one in the same?
Like the lowest to highest on any sort of scale
Every single trace of emotion just felt by name;
Portrayed variably through each separate tale