And what if love’s a myth, a grand illusion,
A tale that humans craft to ease the ache?
A lonely heart, in silent disillusion,
Just sinks where love was meant to leave its wake.

What if from pain we shape it into being,
And fill the void with meaning of our own?
A fleeting warmth, so tender and redeeming,
That drives the night away when we’re alone.

We birth love in the space of expectation—
Its truth, a lie we need to still believe.
Without that faith, there’s no illumination,
And light itself would silently take leave.

But maybe the ones in love see something deeper,
Their gaze cuts through the surface of the day.
Or maybe love’s a question with no keeper,
A riddle time can’t fully sweep away.

And if love’s just a fragile hope we cherish,
That holds us near the edge where shadows grow,
Then should we wait for sparks that soon may perish,
Afraid to burn, yet longing for the glow?

Still, in the sky lives something worth desiring,
And every drop of rain holds whispered grace.
Perhaps love’s just a vision, yet inspiring—
The kind that lights and lifts the darkest place.

For even a glimpse can make the soul remember
The self it lost in sorrow’s silent sea.
Love is the flash, the ever-burning ember
That gives us strength—and soft humility.