When they speak, they spout the wonders,
They speak of the magnificence, prattle on about how wonderful it is.
A deadly flame, but whose licks to your flesh rival none
In the morose delight it gives.
I have seen the face of love and survived
I am yet to see these blazes they speak of.
I do not see the beauty, nor the inexpressible joy,
Not even the roses and the sunny days.
The face that I saw,
The face of what you call love,
Is my own face, dulled in passivity,
Staring back at me.
Fickle face with its fickle intentions.
The lure at first was tempting, I agree,
But when I peeled back the layers,
All I could see was the true face.
But look at me now,
I am the broken shards that lay in your path,
But though it tempts me to say I will stay broken,
It is not so.
I have fallen,
But I have the power in me to rise.
One push will not keep me down,
Nor will it weaken my resolve.
I say to love, I am not your slave,
I am mine.
And though my nightmares are yet to be bereft
Of the face I give to the name of love,
I will not be bereft of my freedom.
For it is by falling that you learn to walk,
And I am now prepared to fall again.