A perfect dream now left unsung
echoes thoroughly from nature's tongue.
From the lips of blossoming rose,
to all hearts, I suppose.
But it be with me, thoughts of love,
shining brighter, brighter than a morning dove.
But of lust, a desire for romance,
a feeling not given a chance.
But a feeling shining less, less than a spark,
goes dim, dimmer till all is dark.
There's hope for a broken heart to mend;
death closes all: but some ere the end.
To be a flower, is profound,
but is there time for love to be found?