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What is love but practice preached? For does not love be true whence love hath end? Love is that which is taught to burn like hell's fire, a fire not end true to yearning and desire. Alas I have lust's piercing sword though thy amour. Woven by hand true to heart; protecting not flesh but thou sword from dishonour.

Is then love's fickle fruit but a longing for taste? That turns sour in thy hands and thy heart that's condemning the haste. Or is love a slave to fantasy? Am I shackled to a tragedy yet so blinded by hope I call it free? Or do I not know love as I do not know thy self? I cry thirst as I stare unto myself in a chalice of truth. And whence the time I have drunken dry I am blinded to myself. That love is in sight once passion be.

Am I just worthless until my heart learns true? Or hath thy quest for solace burdened eyes and bid my whole adieu?

Author's Note

I don't usually write in this style. Let me know what you think of it!