Definiteness is somewhat a void in this world,
An obscured concept none has been able to grasp.
As the world was never been just black and white,
It stayed in the realm of gray—things in the middle.

Concepts that are seemingly hard to ponder.
Things such as the absence of hatred towards
Doesn't mean love is seated for the next.
But more of being civil or casual in some case—gray.

With gray as perspective, things aren't the same:
Talents are devoid from individuals as it is a skill.
Which can be learn and run into two paths ahead,
To become a legend or just simply stuck in mediocrity.

Gray is the enemy of red: both blood and love,
As it is not a foe easy to be trampled, for such,
It exists as the neutrality that goes beyond evil,
And go against love as it is just a form of casualty.

Definiteness is unheard of because it is gray,
And it is gray because it resides in this very world.

Break once, fix twice, repeat.
Redoing for a millenia or an eternity.
To live the life with love you give and get
And to love with the life you have.

In life, permanence is empty.
To break yourself and fix once again.
To fit with the seasons it gives, and
To live ubiquitously with every pieces of you.

While in love, stagnation's absent.
To break yourself and fix once again.
To fill the gaps with that certain someone.
To love with every fragments of one's life.

To repeatedly do everything again and again,
To live for love and to love for life, then redone.
To love because of love with obstacles to none.
To live for the life you have with none to hold back.