Love Is a mask A blatant lie I have believed This word is a treasure I thought I found A treasure I have neither beheld Nor seen A treasure of my imagination Contained in the walls of my thoughts Hiding Until reality, heartless Has struck them down And exposed Not a treasure But a fruit of my imagination The sharpest tip of a weapon The piece of a bullet The edge of the dullest sword The knuckle of a clutched fist The last drop of poison Love is the blade of the arrow Belonging not to cupid But to my beloved Who has pierced me Laid I my own knife In his hands Exposed to him the flesh of my back Willingly did I turn away from him Intrusting in his bloody fingers The knife, my power made his My back, my surrender His pierce, his betrayal The howl, my pain Love is a budding tulip Watered she is ripe But when winter plucks spring from her season She wilts Love is a child's smile Innocent and rare Vanishing Love is the blank of this paper Pure Only to be corrupted With words Love is the fruit of humanity And she is thus flawed Like her creator Flawed and beautiful is she Like Mona Lisa Serene and mischievous Human and still Simple and rare The truth is If Mona Lisa smiled If this paper spat not words If this a child forever remained young If a sword never pierced And a back never turned Humanity would be a fruitless tree A dry river A fractured bone Words unsaid A poem Incomplete.