A memory by any other name is but gnawing death,
For alike a rose, beauty engulfed by unyielding flames,
With flames turns a gallant rose to darkened ash,
And too engulfs my fair remembrance to shame,
Of what once a fair maiden - poisoned by the touch of I,
What once a fair moment devoured to deceitful ash,
To which tears shed to wash away what once a rose,
And sings its tragic tunes fading love to hate in clash.
But a memory - thankfullingly bestowed as Someone's gift,
Blessed with an art of transformation by which a masked-******,
To which builds the perfect dream - an unreachable heaven,
'Fore Dove to whom flies towards thee and reminds thee the truths.
A thought, a dream, a fair moment by which truth had lit,
Hand-in-hand by which arises in false romance,
A devouring love to which by passions aflame,
Unknowingly leaving the fair-burning flames to commence.
A poem on how the passions of love is like a flame that also burns love itself - and on the memory-ghost.