I hate to be in love.
It is such an awful thing
to be so beautiful and so desired.
Captures the heart to wring
until it has expired.
Love is naught but a soul-eater,
ravishing until all is ravaged.
Mistress of deceit, Queen Maltreater,
she is not to be engaged.
Causing victims to feel indomitable,
self-preserving caution thrown to wind.
Once safe in love, hapless and comfortable,
she will that happiness rescind.
In one way, or perhaps another, time will come
when that love shall be gone.
There will be pain before it turns numb,
For there’s no liaison with that greatest con.
I hate to be in love.
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Reblogged this on Words & Whims of a BiblioGypsy and commented:
Because I’m too tired to type up the new one….
The vulnerability of love at its dizzy heights can induce the rancor so sadly and splendidly described here. Very well done.
Many thanks!