That we should count amongst our passions,
Love, shows only the duality of man
For love can not be possessed, though she can
Possess a man, drive him against the walls of
His own heart, a dangerous place surely
Where dangerous games are played, and yet
It is the noblest of pursuits, the white elephant
To our hunter's hearts, and it is the nature of man
That we should believe ourselves capable
Of attaining her entirely, yet speak of ourselves as if
It were impossible, certainly it is a dark day
That our potential is outshone by the shadows
Of doubt, dressed in her funeral best, mourning that which
We have not had, for a love lost is a poem written
Yet love found will ever be a song sung
And as surely as you read these words, and do not hear them
You know by which gallows I am hung.
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