That Passionate Love Which Blooms In Spring

Each one of us follows a specific quest, and there many different ones; for me it's that passionate love which blooms in spring when rain becomes mist. Watching roses drip as eyes that weep restores the memory of that forgotten sadness brought by a faithless love known too briefly to discover the scope of its insincerity. Why didn't I believe in her fickle promise? She only gazed at those radiant stars, as a true one wouldn't have to compromise the beautiful truth not stained with lies. Still waiting to feel that passionate love which blooms in spring... happy wagtails by the petal-draped lake, gather to make their notes ring. Besides velvet-soft kisses that I eagerly steal from tempting lips seeking this man's warm hand, what else could please me more than an indulgent will with that passionate love which blooms in spring?