The verity

1 min read

Both can twist a fate

Be it love or be it death

Death is but a smidgen kinder

A fair, if cold but a just minder

Some say, love is a bed of roses

A muse for poems and flighty proses

But is love really unlike the death

An eon of agony; a pre-ordained fate….

Since ages it has driven men wild

The passion has spared no woman nor child

A venom that gets senses riled

And grips you at its most unexpected while

Love, they say drives many deranged

It cannot be forced or arranged

This is true of death too; I suppose

A soul sighs and then an eternal repose.


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