Rummaging reasons in this ferocious world,
Never been promised to be heard nor answered.
Inevitable things happened.
Some are destined to meet
But meant to split.
To live a life with so many separations
Is to love both tragedy and desolation.
To love is to be alive.
Living comes with dying.
We may find love in dew,
In the plain aspens under the moonlight,
In the eyes that witness aurora,
In the smiles of unknown souls,
In the voice of the likely buried euphoria,
Love may be at anywhere, in anyone, at any time.
Like how Pyramus and Thisbe own the signs,
Their love at the wrong line,
In the chink of the wall,
Inadvertently awful & meant for the fall.
That’s how magic ripped itself into being tragic.
Yes, maybe love is nothing,
But two arms grasping and holding you tight
Until death loosen the tie
Of which love tried to bind.
But how far would you chase love?
How long would you find the lost meaning of life?
Pyramus and Thisbe,
Even if they’d be gone forever.
The love they’ve had,