For some, love is a myth,
A figment of their imagination.
They cherish it with godlike awe,
Yelling, “God, when?” whenever possible.
For others, it is a dream,
A dreadful nightmare
With heartbreak songs in the background.
One they wish never to relive.
Some regard it in colour,
A beauty to behold
And a front for perfection.
It glitters, but it’s not gold.
Love is a masquerade.
Sometimes, fleeing is best.
But in child-like awe,
I gravitate towards it.
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