Midnight Dream

The strange thing about love

Is that we usually are forewarned

Of the excruciating heartbreak

That is soon to come;

And must long be endured.

Vigils are held on those dark times

As tears form the dew of the night.

The frequent suspicions discarded,

On first thought for love’s sake

Only betrayed in hours, then comes doom

In the blink of an eye come too soon,

The seeds that form the roots

Of the unfathomable pungent fruits

Of love’s destruction.

Love’s future’s couched in ambiguous tongue

So perplexing for the sufferer to decipher

As with the interminable sea, bereft of wrongs.

Love’s splendour is alluring; an innocent deceiver.

Of like seedling we find in our love.

We are seedlings, siblings still growing,

Spread on the sun on seven beds—

Being nurtured.