We of the exploding heart,
are always ready to start,
but suffer greatly when we part.
We yearn for, and build great monuments to love,
yet we know little of it's meaning.
We know we are eager,
and we know of carnal pleasure,
but we know not how to distinguish
universal love from the one that is true.
We bleed out love like tidal surges,
we contort and suffer to control our urges.
We die everyday, when someone of beauty looks our way.
We are born on the wings of a dream,
that life is perfect, and love rules it's empire justly.
We are let to fall,
never learning the lesson of Icarus.
Daedalus was a fool to not know that lovers
will always reach for the sun.
We would sooner burn our flesh,
and char our bones,
than learn not to touch that which causes pain.
We are kamikaze lovers in flames,
riding burning planes into the ground.
We are suicide bombers,
exploding with love like so much red paint.
We are artists, and poets, and suicides,
writing "I live for love,
I die for love."
in blood.

©CNB February 2007