Disfigured Heart
Love is but a mist that veils the moon,
A beautiful instrument played out of tune.
Love is but a lion that after the hunt devours it’s pray,
And leaves the bare carcass to rot away.
Love is a gentle ghost trapped in a material world of nothingness,
Which is felt, but in this world rarely seen.
A falsehood found on every lovers lips, that lies and poisons the heart,
For sorrow never sleeps, the broken heart is left dead to weep.
Gentle hands that once did hold in love are now stained in blood.
Voices that laughed and gently wooed, now speak cruelly out of tune.
Bodies and souls that were wrought together are now parted, foe for ever.
Sweat melodies and warm gentle breeze, smells of jasmine,
rose and herb no longer fragrant the lovers world.
Stagnant air of love lost has but one thick pungent smell of complete despair.
Soft, frail words from another voice are spoken, like a poets spell the despondent
heart awoken, as it gently heals love is given but another chance to leave its cold
and bloodied mess.
In the shadows of the dark love lurks with quivering bow to hide the arrow of such
woe, for every arrow that hits its mark leaves a disfigured heart when succumbed
to a mediocre love. Courageously fight and battle for true love for ego has no
winner.
Let the Archers arm be true and find but one heart, one love, for me and you.
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