Love Is a Fickle Thing

Love is a fickle thing, it blooms in spring only to fall, Give it room to grow on its own, But before long its weeds have sprung, Choking the garden of all its young, No room for new flowers to grow, Before long its all you know, A dandelion, small but bright, a tiny, fiery, tower, But before long its petals have gone, And now a dome of hope alone, White wisps spread through the mist, Released by a parting wish, Leading to a sprouting growth, Each and every garden inch now occupied by more white wisps, And before long the question dawns, is this still the love we know