Is it that funny feeling inside?
That tingles and makes hearts open wide?
Maybe that quivering stomach is a sign,
Or maybe it's cured with a few sips of wine.
For some, love is like a feather falling,
Drifting slowly, and gracefully, landing softly.
For others, it's a rock, skipping across a pond,
Light as a feather, but lands very hard.
Does love grow?
Like a flower in spring.
Or does it escape?
Like a once caged thing.
The spring flowers never die,
They return.
The beast however, once gone
Returns never.
Is cupid an angel?
So sweet and kind, who spreads seed of joy.
Or is he a demon?
Sick in his mind, who releses the beast upon us.
Will we ever know?
Maybe not but I'll keep trying,
To find the flowers you must endure the beast.
And who knows? Maybe tomorrow....
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