Does it always take a stolen glance,
To form a misinterpreted thought?
Or does it always have to be an intellectual phase,
To perceive a misconception?
Hanging on by the filaments of poor judgement;
Hold on you silly scared little heart,
For there is no mercy for a fallen hero in love.
I see a light in your voice,
I form a dream in your words,
I concieve a future in your thoughts,
But perhaps it is all a fragment of my imagination;
Only to be shattered like a thousand pieces of an ever brittle mirror!
Damaged, irrepairable-are these the only words,
That appear to come from depths all so loud?
Life of some misconstrued lies,
Or some some straight faced hard truths!
Ever wonder which is more conniving or deceiving!
To be loved or to be caught up in the idea of being loved,
Or to be woken up in a nightmare of only lust!
And the irony of such treacherous thoughts,
More resolute and evident with the imminent victim in plain sight!