You are in the strings of a violin

you are in the smell of a desert

you are the masterpiece which a painter nearly died making

you are the face of my cat, innocent, caring and warm

and yet, you're the bomb which blew my insides to pieces

the greats say its natural for you are but a rose with thorns

and they made the *****, the blood and the pain, the norm to live and die for

they say he sent you for us, and you work as mysteriously as he does

so its a sin for us to judge, for maybe you are too complicated as such

but for me now as i see, you are but my cat with a tiger's face and nothing much

you are a parasite, you breathe in me, and yet you think you're free

and yet i am the root that holds the tree which you are growing

so why not sail together but on your own you are rowing

you are not deaf so speak yourself, and let me see you clear

for you are too naïve to steer my boat which you have already sinking

so dear love, let my mind do some thinking, for titanic was romantic enough until old wood started stinking