Love Is a Fickle Thing
Love is a fickle thing,
it blooms in spring
only to fall,
Give it room to grow
on its own,
But before long
its weeds have sprung,
Choking the garden
of all its young,
No room for new
flowers to grow,
Before long
its all you know,
A dandelion, small but bright,
a tiny, fiery, tower,
But before long
its petals have gone,
And now a dome of hope alone,
White wisps spread through the mist,
Released by a parting wish,
Leading to a sprouting growth,
Each and every garden inch
now occupied by more white wisps,
And before long
the question dawns,
is this still the love we know
|