Some believe that love cannot be defined,
Yet the poets of old attempted to
Work through the intricacies of the mind
And the heart to work out why they love you.
Some talk of heartstrings and thumping in chests;
Others of roses or roads untraveled,
Lasting devotion which undergoes tests,
Or balls of emotions now unraveled.
But no one has written about your eyes,
Or the way that you love me without fear.
No author of old can know of my prize,
Nor even fair Juliet of Shakespeare.
While love has existed all throughout time,
No one has known of the one that is mine.
Yet the poets of old attempted to
Work through the intricacies of the mind
And the heart to work out why they love you.
Some talk of heartstrings and thumping in chests;
Others of roses or roads untraveled,
Lasting devotion which undergoes tests,
Or balls of emotions now unraveled.
But no one has written about your eyes,
Or the way that you love me without fear.
No author of old can know of my prize,
Nor even fair Juliet of Shakespeare.
While love has existed all throughout time,
No one has known of the one that is mine.
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