Love is the Matter
Why do they congeal--
These things I feel,
Which feel so real?
I'm spinning on a wheel,
Beginning to keel,
As the tightness in my chest starts to seal.
He's in my heart;
I'm tearing apart
Because his being is a work of art.
This is the start
Of an emotion so tart--
It is love, sweetheart.
I hate myself for loving him,
As though it began on a whim,
But now my future begins to look so dim.
Undeniably for him I'm prim,
As I weave a tale like the brothers Grimm;
It's a fairy-tale of love he'd skim.
His beauty and grace begin to smite,
And in his wake I follow despite
The fact that he is something finite.
I'm a burning fire for him to ignite,
And it will be my tragic plight--
An endless battle too hard to fight.
I feel as though this is the end--
An undesired heart to mend,
As my love and hatred do contend
for a future with him I'd like to spend.
But his feelings, of course, transcend
My own desire, which I have just penned.