Love is the lie that keeps us alive.

It is not beauty born to the tongue that speaks it.

It is not grace nor ease for those who invite it.

Love does not whisper with the subtlety of the wind, to kindly make its presence known.

It is not ubiquitous, as so often described, not many are even born from it.

It is not warm hands that keep away the cold waters of the Styx.

It sits quite nicely in the optimistic eye, but unseen is an insidious side.

It wears the alluring colors of specious fruits with bitter hearts.

Much sin has followed such a taste, for memory lane recalls too many a name.

A little drop may ease the pain but overindulgence is its game.