We Will Never Understand Love As Death

Love will always mark itself out in the local of our eye, but our local is a lie. our love has crossed oceans, bent the bend of a horizon thousands of times over the head we have of it. our local is our meaning, our value held to dear; a self set in begining short of wanting change be near. and love is not close. a love eludes what 'is', but determined we find we may still set its pose. make love a local image; fencing that writhe to gardended time and pardon sudden changes to a nature undivine. to mistake love's hold for that which we control, is to kill the swan and count it's feathers and proclaim in agony: THIS IS THE LAST SWAN, PURE AND WHITE! 'and forget to mention' DEAD FOR ME TO SEE! so be weak in love and wish its death. those prone to hold and own, will always grasp at breath and find shadows in their home. Love like this will always burn, will always make habit of it's beauty, and will happen again and again, for as long as we love.