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Love is the first curse,
That sets our hearts free, or binds it,
Turning it to granite.
It is a wild winged beast,
A beast of our own creation,
Which we accept like a gift.
It can be warm and full of life,
In one fleeting moment of beauty,
And cold and distant in the next.
Yet we do this to ourselves,
We don the familiar masks,
Old and worn, and we walk on eggshells.
We follow this path for friends,
For family and for love;
Love is the first curse, and our only hope.
Tom Stanley |
