Like black stars that shine on a blue moon,
the gloomy light that hovers in a dark room,
of a decimated beauty in puzzled ruins,
a beautiful science of firebrands and Waterloos.
On a golden day, love comes like a stampede,
a likeliness to fall for it is only a detriment to your own fit,
this is another nomenclature for hypocrisy,
fruit of futility; vanity to humanity.
Truelove doesn’t exist among lying lips,
neither does it live in a closed eyes looking for grief,
neither is it a cherub among demons,
or a halal for stealing hearts and diamonds.
When love loses its publicity, its essence becomes a growing euphemism,
in a world where real is rare and hate spreads like evangelism,
of claws and fangs masqueraded as Romeo and Juliet
today’s devil is evil clothed in velvet.
It’s hard to smell the roses when the breath is afflicted,
dying/dead feelings come alive when life start to look perfected,
love becomes a stranger when its nature has no place of purpose,
but we’re blinded by glitters in this sun coast,
reality is a con artist; the society fed us a role play,
in this world of ours where love only visit on birthdays…