Eerie is the tune of love,
too unpredictable a haven,
and striking and quick as the cherished dove,
but ugly and fiesty as the raven.
Its melody is murmured, muffled,
resonating in the ears of youth,
and these ears of disillusion shuffle
the truth of inevitable rebuke.
The pure and expecting mentality
nurtures a notion too naive,
beholds a love eternally
too innocent by all means.
Exquisite may be the hearth constructed
in minds with no fantasy constricted,
though what does cleave the treasured dream,
but lone growing age so it would seem.
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