Love is like the twirling wick
That burns itself to spread the light,
And the lamp is like the throbbing heart,
That feels the swell and ebb of light.
Sometimes when the lamp overflows,
The wick sputters and drowns the light,
Sometimes when the wick burns too low,
It burns, chars, and becomes cinder.
1 comment:
Vagaries of Love so akin to the burning of the wick in a lamp
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