The inner conflict which nobody else can see
A soul’s yearning which has imposed itself upon thee
A black void, seemingly irreconcilable
A dissatisfactory life, becoming unbearable
Wanting nothing but perfection
But anxiety is the infection.
That which poisons and manipulates,
A mind which only contemplates…
Contemplate, contemplate, no calm to meditate.
A pure and fated love
But still,
It’s not enough.
Not enough, never enough,
Compelling us to give it up.
Try might the darkness
But
These lovers are artists.
Pure love is eternal.
Nothing infernal will stand in the way.
As time inches forward
The lovers patiently await their day.
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