Random poetic moments are good to me...

Sometimes the stars in our eyes turn into tears. And our passing lonely moments become passing years. And our body’s grow cold, to dull all the pain. And our lips may forget how to feel something again. And the dusts settles over all our love notes and glances. And the cobwebs on our hearts suddenly define what romance is. And the willow tree weeps for the death that it sees. And our eyes meet each other’s, but we’ve forgotten how to breathe. So dead, cold, and buried, our lost love lies. Content to sit unbidden, behind fear, hurt, and lies.

But know, my darling, should every one of these words come to pass. That true love will still be there, hidden underneath grass. Tangled up in roots that grew, to try and shut it in. But softly it should still come forth, if only given one reason.

A call to rise, back to life from the ground. And the very leaves in the trees will shake for the sound. And the willow tree will raise her head, and declare that once love’s lost, it’s dead. But the quickening in our hearts, and the ruddiness of our faces, will prove to the crying wind, that of life there still lies traces.

And our backs will be bent, but our voices will be strong. As we look up and wail a defiant love song. And the world will shake in wonder, that miracles do come true, as our lips regain feeling, and our faces turn from blue. And warmth will flood our bodies, as a an omen, or a token. That, with a shriek in the night, the still grave is breaking open.

Love is prevailing! Though seemingly too good to be true! The cobwebs all are breaking as the dusts disolved into. The sea, the sea! With a mighty roar! Floods all the breakers, onto the shore. And with a heave and a shove, Love is back on her feat. Gaining strength by the minute, laughing at defeat. Showing off her muscles, though they’ve been sleeping for years. She flashes a valiant smile, who’s warmth dries year’s tears.

And believe me darling

Our smiles will find each other again, though all hope may have seemed lost.

Because underneath every seeming grave, lies a love, never to exhaust.