The mind rows in the metaphorical rivers of pain and release
I have never been one to wish for either as desperately as I do now
But either seems to only cause me anxieties of beginning anew
Love brings with it torments, and none of them are really sweet
We often imagine them to be a gift that arrives like a rose and thorn
I have learnt to know that roses look best from afar in a bush
Out of it and in the hands of people it only wilts and dies, much sooner
When love dies like a rose picked, we see the ugly sides of lovers
We pose questions of existence and if the divinity would yield
I know me, I have conversed with the universe at length
It has mocked my foolish innate desire to be loved and free
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