Jan 2021
Love is as a peom, written without its end.
As its weary poet inks his barren pen.
An art all men wish to read, though very few can see; yes love is above all things, this world's greatest mystery.
As its weary poet inks his barren pen.
An art all men wish to read, though very few can see; yes love is above all things, this world's greatest mystery.
A mystery that borders upon a myth. An embrace that promises its captive, a kiss. What else does the whole word have, that's quite like this?
