It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
Who first spoke this tale so tall?
Who had such a sanctified wherewithal?
Who had the gumption and the gall?
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
What is Love? To whom does it befall?
Does one clearly hear its call?
Is its writing on the wall?
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
Is there freedom in Love's enthrall?
Is comfort found in its appal?
And can Love lead to one's downfall?
For when it is everywhere, it is nowhere at all.
9 comments:
It is AMAZING. Sometimes you go out and find the torch to light what is inside your heart. Sometimes you feel like others feel. Today is one of those days you can believe in invisible threads expanding throughout time and space, tying minds and tears.
Many, are we, that wonder, same.
Heart, always on the ponder.
Be not, afraid, to love again,
Perhaps, he lay, just yonder.
Thru my veins, doth flow, thy spirit. Sweet Muse, thou makest my quill, tremble! Or, be that, my maudlin heart?
Perhaps I have loved before. Undoubtedly I have been infatuated and blind.
Perhaps I have never loved.
I'm going to bed with that 'Perhaps I have never loved' playing hide and seek in my head. After so many stories, definitely love is somehow something intangible that is but is not.
For thee.....
If Love, a labour, be
Requires, too great, a fee.
Sell not, thy soul, is key,
To Love eternally.
If Love, doth bring duress.
Give not, thy heart, unless,
Thy faults, shall he, caress.
In him, thy soul, shall rest!
From nowheres, may come, he.
Beware! Lest, thy not, see.
Thence, Love him true and free,
With no apology!
Hold fast, 'tis my suggest.
Thou knows, that thee, are blessed!
9Feb06
dml
Fear not, fair lady. Too many, attempt to manufacture, what they think is Love. They marry et al.....too soon, they drift...
Altruistic Love is strongest, doth he Love thee, more than himself? The same, then ask, thyself.
Better to have Loved and Lost, why, yes...
Not so, to have been married, once, twice etc. and never have loved
If Love a labour is,
My lord, the labour's his.
This soul cannot be sold;
So wise it is, so old.
He cannot caress my faults
Till I tend to my shalts
And till he tends to his
For Love a labour is.
The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry her
She's not heavy, she's my....
So, on we go
Her welfare is my concern
No burden is she to bear
We'll get there
For I know
She would not encumber me
She's not heavy, she's my....
If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of Love, for one and other
It's a long, long road
From which there is not return
While we're on the way, to there
Why not share
And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
She's not heavy, she's my....
R. Wainwright
No magic words, have I, to ease thy distress. Resolve, do I have. Until you tire of me, shall I attempt, the storm, ride out. This journey, have I taken. Rough waters, do we face. Be not afraid, to share with me thy sorrow. Strong my shoulders be, stronger be my heart.
Attempts I make, to soothe thee, it seems, most times fall short... If 1000 pens, it takes....as many words as stars, no matter, ready am I.
No master am I, like thee. Perhaps, my meager words, lack enough 'content', I assure thee, righteous is my 'intent'.
Strong my pen has felt, this fortnight. Yet, my labours do not please thee. As you see not, your grief's end, I see not, an empty well....
In advance, to thee, an apology, for whence, my words, do fail. Search, will I, for those enchanting words, til find them I do....Or, M'Lady's sorrow, it's course doth run....
Suggest, did I, in dispatch last....thy plate, be full, with bitter herbs....despair not! To me, pass them. For each I take, the less for you, to swallow.
As long as I know, I have 'thy blessing', endure all, can I, for thee. Until, all poison, your heart leaves....I shall be thy antidote....
If thou feels, thy must strike out....then do so unto me. Whether kick, cut, jab or thrust each blow, I can sustain, for I am thy 'rock'
Take not my bitter herbs from me--
My kale and collard greens!
Man dost not live on Truth alone;
Such herbs they are my means.
I scrub the leaves with a coarse brush
And chop them into bits;
And tip them into scalding oil
And toss with garlic chips.
With salt and pepper season
They are ready for the eat
Made so, they prove delectable
And bitterness is sweet!
So reach not for my fork! Unless
To my table, invited Thou art.
Such greens, so cooked, do battle with
The poison in my heart.
CAPITAL!....so sterling, are you, at this!
Smoothly, flow thy words.
Whereas, taking thy herbs, from you, was I not.
Taking them FOR you, was my offer.
Yet, savory is thy description. Understand, do I, thy reticence to release them. Perhaps, with a nice vin blanc?
Never wouldst I, assume, an unwelcomed invitation, at thy table. In the wings, stand I, at thy beck and call. Thy health, be my concern. Pre-taste thy food, to protect thee, from assassin's and the like....if thy ration of 'bitter' be many, volunteer did I, to alleviate thy burden.
Outsmart them, has M'Lady! Create thy own antidote, from the dog's hair.
Pleased, am I, to know, thy have taken such measures. Poison in thy heart, stands not a chance, against one so wise!
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