Love is too fickle a creature.
Hope is supposed to be its feature.
It goes not always to the deserving;
It is not always received by the yearning.
But I know love intimately as can be.
And never again will I ever let it touch me.
For love it is, forever sought.
By no means, can it be bought.
But you can pay a heavy price for it.
A heart, a soul; your wrist to slit.
Your hopes, your dreams, your faith in Him.
For beautiful women are creatures of whim.
Harlequin
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