• Strange, it is,
    How fast the warm yet icy
    Hand known as love can grab you.
    It can throw you at any target it
    Chooses, even though you think
    It was your choice.

    The warm of it seeps into you,
    Making you sweat and worry,
    Wonder and wander, and what for?
    Only for your vision seeming sharpened
    Around that person, your heart heavy
    And beating hard to keep up
    With the swirling vortex of your brain.

    It is a sickness, this feeling.
    Every day the jovial antics you
    Ususally partake in seem
    Dulled and dimmed,
    Cut and trimmed.
    You feel like a hedge.

    So when this sickness
    Hits you, what are you
    Supposed to do? Your
    Stuffed into the darkest,
    Hottest corner of your own phyche.

    Everyone waits for the rain
    That may wash them away
    Into life again, just as I do.
    But be still, O listener. For
    Everyone shall see the same sunset
    On their recovery of the sickness.