I burn in its flame.
My love is like a fever
On a high, insane.
It flows like a river
Singing an endless song.
It pricks and aches
And breaks like a dried rose thorn.
It grows like a flower
In spring time, full bloom.
Its glows like the sun,
Which waits for the moon.
A fierce shade of heat
A summer wildfire
A storm in the night
So icy and dire.
It sets me pacing one moment
Plays a twisted hide and seek
Rigid and irrevocable
Miserably weak.
A fuming rage
Breaking free every cage
A silent whisper
The word of a sage.
It weaves like silk
Laced with love lust.
And breathes like iron
Aged with dust.
Echoing feeble tunes
Of hills and sand dunes
A nightingale’s welcome voice
My personal game of passion and choice.
It kills and thrives
Then soars and dives.
My love is like a rain
Rosy in strain
My love is like a fire,
So I be a moth
And immolate my soul
In its whimsical warmth.
