'Tis better to have loved and lost, a jilted soul bemused,
Than to sip the burning, hopeless gall of love not once refused.
But that poor soul was a self-made addict to the hope of reborn love.
A fatal drug that dulls all sense of when too much is enough.
Sub-consciously they wait for love to bud from dying roots,
Acquiesced to blissful bitterness; unmindful of the truth.
Reality is real my friend, and things thought true are not.
Be not fooled by those who revel in love's ugly, severed knot.
Bitter is still bitter, though acquired taste for some.
And unlove is still better than the opposite of numb.
For broken hearts will never heal to their pre-enraptured state.
And sometimes heal to open wounds disguised by iron plates.
Than to sip the burning, hopeless gall of love not once refused.
But that poor soul was a self-made addict to the hope of reborn love.
A fatal drug that dulls all sense of when too much is enough.
Sub-consciously they wait for love to bud from dying roots,
Acquiesced to blissful bitterness; unmindful of the truth.
Reality is real my friend, and things thought true are not.
Be not fooled by those who revel in love's ugly, severed knot.
Bitter is still bitter, though acquired taste for some.
And unlove is still better than the opposite of numb.
For broken hearts will never heal to their pre-enraptured state.
And sometimes heal to open wounds disguised by iron plates.