Mankind is so often deceived to believe that

Beauty rests only in the happy and unbroken,

But oh how they are blind to it spilling forth

From the wounds of the shattered soul.

It is beauty that is found

When darkness assaults the eyes,

When hopelessness blinds the mind

And when unbearable pain torques the body.

And why is it that so often the beauty of

Poetry or art

Even in its desolate depictions

Weigh down our souls with grief?

Because of love.

Behind every thorny snare

And swollen cloud

That plagues our existence

Is our love for the contrary

Summoned most especially in times of

Darkness and despair.

It is the knowledge that no joyful thing

Will forever last

That plants seeds of love in our hearts

And that love

Inflamed by time

Chokes the heart with its thorny vines

And ensnares the soul

With such tempestuous beauty

Of what is now a mere memory.

Our love would not be so strong

Nor beauty existent

If immortality were to strike

The gaieties that make our hearts

Soar to the heavens.